


A Court of Ashes and Shadows

by Un0rganizedWeird0



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Bargains, Dragons, Eventual Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Multiple, Post-ACOWAR, Pregnancy, Witchcraft, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Un0rganizedWeird0/pseuds/Un0rganizedWeird0
Summary: After the Battle of Hybern, the Court of Dreams finds itself in a moment of peace but even with the Cauldron gone, there are still evil forces in the world that turn their eyes toward Prythian. Velaris is visited by a shadowy stranger who offers to help and advise the Court of Dreams on how to deal with the dangers to come. But the more they learn, the more they begin to wonder what is not being said and come to find their visitor's history may be as dark and frightening as that of the Night Court.





	1. Chapter 1

**MOIRA**

The last of the ashes have been collected from the snow-covered battlefield. A girl walks across the killing fields, over and around the forgotten corpses of humans and fae alike. She pays no mind to which court or kingdom the dead fae belonged to, she doesn’t care if they fought for Hybern or Prythian, but still she keeps her distance from the winged bodies. She has come to witness the last stand of the Gods and to collect their precious remains before the wind can claim them. She continues across the death field and up a cliff near the sea, it’s near the top she feels it, magic. _This is where the Cauldron sat_. She looks over the ledge down to the blood-soaked earth, staining the fresh snow red. The scene takes her back to old battles and horrible bloody acts from long ago but still she can feel that blood on her hands. The wind whips around her, blowing through her hair and the skirts of her faded black dress. She wraps her shawl and hood tighter around her small frame. The cold biting into the exposed skin of her bare feet, slim fingers and freckled face, painting her pale skin shades of pink. _This is where he fell, he left you, he didn’t wait for you, you will die without him_. The thoughts continue to gnaw at her, she wants to scream herself hoarse but she fights the cries that want to tear from her throat and angrily wipes at the tears that roll down her cheeks. She will not mourn here, not now. She closes her eyes and thinks of her sadness, loneliness and anger, feeling it turn to fire in her veins, warming her and melting the snow under her feet. She reminds herself of who she is and what she is capable of, calming her raging mind and heart. _I am powerful, with or without him_. She looks back out into the horizon, the shadows growing long around her. Turning to face due north, she has a long road ahead of her and more ashes to collect.

* * *

  **AZRIEL**

Azriel sat in the corner of the living room concealed by the shadows as he filed his knife, Truth-Teller in silence. A strange peace had fallen over the House of Wind since the Battle of Hybern, the likes he can’t truly believe are real. His wings are still healing but grow stronger every day. His High Lord and Lady are alive and enjoying this new quite as if it may end at any moment, and as far as any of them know, it could.

Cassian is still in the mountains, reassembling his remaining fighting clans and counting the dead, his physical wounds have long since healed but it’s the invisible ones that worry Azriel, the weight of the dead and wounded that his brother carries on his shoulders and Rhysand sees and feels it too, the guilt and regret. He reminds himself there will be time later to help Cassian but it is not now.

Armen is not what she once was since remerging from the Cauldron, she has grown distant since their return to Velaris, trying to find what she may or may not still be capable of, or so his shadows have observed.

There is still more work to be done, there has been no whispers from Hybern since the end of the war, what little news he has received tell him what he already knows, their armies destroyed and the mortal queens, all back on the continent in hiding, regrouping themselves for their next attack but so far nothing. He thinks of Queen Vassa, who has now returned to the wizard in the lake, but has not found any word about who her master is or how to help free her yet.

The rebuilding of a truce and wall between the humans and the fae courts is a slow process but Feyre is committed to see a new one made, so they wait for news from the mortal realm for the next meeting.

Nesta and Elain are still in mourning, their fathers return and sudden death has been hard on all the Archeron sisters.

Azriel wonders if this feeling of peace comes from knowing the Cauldron is gone, hidden well, far away and hopefully one day to be forgotten. He isn’t sure but allows himself to accept this tiny moment of tranquility for what it is worth. His shadows return to him as he sheaths his blade. Their report is the same as the last, his whispers manipulated and delayed by a hooded wonderer who is now spotted at the borders of Velaris. He opens his mind up to Rhysand to inform him of this new threat, his High Lord walks into the room, his hands in his pockets as Azriel stands and leaves the comfort of the shadows.

“When did you first come across this person?”, the High Lord ask as he begins to pace the room.

“Four days ago, at the southern shore near the Day Court, by the time I arrived all traces had gone cold and a small boat had been smashed to pieces on the rocks by the tide.” Az answered. “I’ve had my spies out since then covering our court for any sign of this stranger. Only now they return but again they have come back, battered. Whoever this is, they possess immense magic in order to fight my shadows.”

Rhysand runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “We will go together to investigate this, to where your spies last encountered them, I want to see if this person is powerful enough to find their way past the spells and into the city. Call Amren, I want her alert of this situation and on guard. Send for Mor, I want her here until we return.”

Azriel nods as his High Lord walks back out of the room to prepare for their journey, the spymaster walks over to the open window to the breathtaking view of his beloved city, sending out new whispers.

* * *

  **RHYSAND**

Within the hour, Rhysand is flying out of the House of Wind with Azriel out to the southern border of Velaris. Dressed in their Illyrian fighting leathers and great swords strapped to their backs, Azriel’s seven Siphons out on display. He can feel his Spymaster’s anger rolling off him in waves as they fly over the city, his disappointment of not having been able to deal with this possible threat on his own and allowing it to come so close to home. Now together, Rhysand is sure they could dispose of this intruder soon. He signals for Azriel to lead the way as they winnow to their destination.

They land feet from each other and just inside the border of spells around the city and right away, Rhysand senses it, something is wrong. He smells the air, _it’s not possible_ , he looks to Azriel who’s face confirms that he too smells it as his brother unsheathes his sword. He looks back around, spreading out his hands and feeling across the wall of spells, with a deep breath Rhysand squares his shoulders and walks straight through the wall, _it can’t be, this can’t be_. He feels new magic across the divide, dangerous and unquestionably not fae. He walks back through and again he feels the powerful new spells wrap around him as they decide whether or not to let him pass or kill him. They allow him entry and he physically shakes his head, limps and wings as if the act could wash away the feel of this new magic from his skin.

“There are new spells on the city, this wonderer added more protection spells!” He doesn’t know this kind of magic but he knows what kind of being can create it, Rhys turns to Azriel and finds the Spymaster kneeling down in the dirt. His fingers trace over the small footprints. Not shoe prints, not boot prints, but bare feet. Tracks leading into…

“Rhys, there is a human witch in Velaris,” declares Azriel, his words come out barely above a whisper, standing up right and looking back towards the city, not believing his own eyes.

They follow the tracks a quarter mile until they disappear completely under fresh snow. Shooting into the sky just above the tree line they sweep across the forest looking for any more signs but come up empty as they reach the city streets.

They come to land on the cobbled road, Azriel shadows swirl just above his shoulder, “Amren smells the witch in the interior of the city but can’t locate her.” His jaw tensing as he spits out his report.

Rhys nods and takes to the sky again, looking across his city. He reaches across the mating bond and tells Feyre everything.

* * *

  **FEYRE**

Feyre relays Rhysand’s news to Morrigan, Lucien and her sisters and that he and Azriel are now returning to the House of Wind, “Azriel has sent word to Cassian, as well. Amren has put a curfew on the city, all residents should be indoors by the time Cassian returns so we can begin a sweep on the city.”

“What business does a human witch have in Velaris? What is she doing in the Night Court?” Elain muses from her seat by the window overlooking the city, her voice small as she fidgets with her iron engagement ring. Lucien stands behind her chair looking out toward the horizon, his golden eye searching for anything suspicious.

“There has never been a mortal in Velaris, humans never make it into the Night Court once they cross north of the wall.” Morrigan proclaims. “It’s possible this witch seeks out Nesta, like calls to like.”

Nesta turns to glare at Morrigan, “I have nothing to do with other witches, I want nothing to do with this one.”

Morrigan shrugs.

“I won’t let her come near you or Elain, we will protect you. Cassian will be here soon.” Feyre reassures her eldest sister, knowing it is Elain safety she is more worried about than her own. Nesta doesn’t respond but settles her gaze on Elain.

“Fly me down to the city, I will find her.” Lucian pipes, turning his mechanical eye on Feyre.

“Not until we can go together, we have no idea who she is and what she is capable of.” Feyre asserts. Lucien opens his mouth to debate but before he can, Rhysand walks in with Azriel.

Feyre feels something in her sag with relief at seeing her mate safe, she hadn’t realized she had become so worried. Rhysand goes straight to her and places a feather light kiss on her temple before turning to address everyone, who have now stood and turned to look to their High Lord and Lady for direction.

“When Cassian arrives we will go to the townhouse together. Elain and Nesta will stay inside with Amren, while the rest of us go into the city starting at the Rainbow and fanning out from there. Azriel spies confirm report that citizens have come in contact with the witch.” Rhysand informs them.

Feyre’s chest grows tight learning that her people have unknowingly come so close to danger.

Her mate continues, “No one has been harmed, but half an hour ago restaurant owner did sell her a goblet of blood, fresh from his kill for tomorrow behind his shop. She didn’t speak with him besides the initial exchange, she sat on the stoop and drank while he carved up the meat, when he turned back to ask if she wanted more, she was gone. Moments later Amren arrived but all traces of her vanished.”

Everyone was silent, trying to grasp what it is they have just been told, Nesta has gone pale, her eyes impossibly wide. Feyre can see the questions on her sister’s beautiful face, _will I become like this witch? Am I capable of drinking blood? Is this witch here for me?_

It’s Elain who breaks through everyone’s reserve, “If she paid for her meal, blood or not. She has come so deep into the city without issue, perhaps she doesn’t mean any harm. Perhaps she is just a simple wonderer?”

“Perhaps”, Rhysand concurs. “That’s why I seek to find her and to ask her myself. There has never been a human in the Night Court, I want to know who this witch is and how she located Velaris. If she isn’t a threat to my people or my family, I see no reason to why she can’t stay.”

“So when we find her, we’re going to invite her to dinner and ask for her life story?” Morrigan interjects.

“No, we are going to find her, whoever encounters her first will send for Azriel.” Rhysand clarifies as he cuts a look to the spymaster, “I will speak to her in private. No one is to engage her; we don’t know how powerful she is and I won’t risk anyone’s safety.”

Morrigan begins to protest but is cut off by the arrival of Cassian. Already in his fighting leathers and hair pulled back off his hard face, he looks like he is ready to do much more than talk. His eyes scan across everyone in the room and settle on Nesta for moment before he turns his attention to Rhysand, “Ready?”

Rhysand nods and everyone begins to file out toward the courtyard. The sun is beginning to set on Velaris and the air is bitter cold as Feyre uses her shapeshifting power to extend her wings. She has been practicing more lately and they have gotten stronger. She offers to carry Elain as she is the lightest and they only need to get passed the House’s defenses before she can winnow Elain and herself to the townhouse. Elain walks toward her sister’s open arms but pauses a foot from her.

“I’m sorry.” Elain confesses to Feyre, pausing to clear her throat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have any visions of this witch. I haven’t really seen anything since the battle.”

Feyre closes the gap between them, wrapping her arms around Elain, rubbing little circles on her back. “Elain, there is nothing to apologize for. No one expected you to have any visions or would blame you for not having them”, affirms Feyre with a small smile. Elain pulls back enough to look into her eyes and returns her smile with a slight nod.

One by one the Illyrians take to the sky with their loads secure in their arms; Azriel carrying Lucien, Nesta with Cassian and Rhysand carrying Morrigan.

Elain wraps her arms around Feyre’s neck and whispers into her hair. “Please don’t drop me”.

Feyre chuckles as she takes off next to Rhysand, “Never”, she assures her sister.

The cold air bites into them both only for a second before she winnows them into the warmth and safety of the townhouse.

Amren is waiting for them as they all emerge in the Foyer. They begin moving about the house, Morrigan winnowing up into the second landing and disappears down the hall. Nesta takes Elain by the hand to the living room to sit by the fire. Feyre walks to Rhysand's side as he asks Amren for her report. Lucien stands a few feet away listening but keeping his eyes on Elain.

“I can smell her in the city but she is covering her tracks as she moves. She was last seen not long ago speaking to an elder near the Sidra”, Amren accounts. Azriel’s shadows churn about his ears and shoulders as he nods to verify Amren’s statement.

Rhysand runs a hand through his hair as he instructs Azriel. “Find the elder, find out what was spoken between them.”

Azriel nods and replies, “Yes, my High Lord.” Taking it as his cue to leave, the shadowsinger takes a step back and is about to winnow when there is a knock on the front door behind them.

Everyone stops, just stops. No one is breathing as they all slowly turn to gape at the door. _It can’t be_. Morrigan winnows back into the foyer, the silence still seizing them as they sniff the air. _Maybe they are all just imagining it._ Then there is another succession of knocks, louder this time and Feyre knows then there will be no hunt tonight in the city of Velaris. She looks up to her mate who stares at the door in complete disbelief, confirming what she already knew. The human witch found them first.


	2. Chapter 2

**MOIRA**

The sun sets on Velaris and the streets are now completely empty. An old Fae had explained to her the curfew set on the city tonight as they walked side-by-side across the river, just before parting ways and pointing her up a hill toward a row of townhouses. The girl stares up at the townhouse from the street, noting the mediocrity of it as she compared it to the homes on either side. She’s almost sure this isn’t the right one but for the serious voices and light coming from inside. She inhales traces of the witch, _she is here_. She takes a step up toward the house but pauses a moment when she recognizes there are Illyrians inside as well, but steels herself and continues up to the door. She knocks and on the other side the occupants go completely silent. The witch holds her breath and wonders for a moment if they have all winnowed away but begins to catch tiny movements from within. She knocks again more insistent this time as she shifts from one foot to the other. She wants to demand they open up at once and remind them of how cold it is but she holds her tongue. For several moments, she hears more shuffling about and hushed voices inside the house. She sighs and raises her hand to knock again when the door knob turns, the door swings wide open and she is greeted by the warmth and darkness within.

* * *

  **RHYSAND**

A human had made it into the Night Court, found Velaris and was now standing on his front porch. Rhysand wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea but here she is, only feet away from him and his family. Another moment tics by after her second series of knocks before remembering himself, reaching out into the minds of his court and dealing out orders.

Immediately everyone begins moving, Cassian and Lucien winnow into the living room to instruct and lead Elain and Nesta to the library, he hears Nesta insisting she wants to stay but Cassian has none of it and all but drags her away. Amren winnows out into the city to hunt and confirm the witch is here alone. Morrigan settles herself on the chaise in the living room while Azriel sinks into the shadows in the corner of the room, giving himself a perfect vantage point.

He turns to Feyre and reaches for her hand. Her eyes are bright in the dim lighting as he brings her knuckles to his lips and winnows them both into the middle of the living room, _“if she starts a fight, go to your sisters and take them back to the House of Wind”_ , he speaks into her mind. His mate nods as he extends his power to open the door and they both turn to face their visitor, hand-in-hand.

* * *

  **AZRIEL**

The witch steps into the house and pulls back her hood, her shawl falling open at the movement, she looks around the foyer and up the stairs to the landing and ceiling above as the door closes quietly behind her. _She looks unbelievably young;_ Azriel muses from the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of Truth-Teller as she finally turns to look into the living room. She pales as she takes in the details of Rhysand's face and wings before turning her attention to Feyre, her eyes searching as if she could see right into his High Lady’s soul.

She walks a foot into the room before sinking on to a knee and bowing, “High Lord Rhysand and High Lady Feyre of the Night Court, thank you for receiving me at such a late hour. I am Moira of Lethe; I have travelled a long way in good faith that you will accept my company and counsel.”

Standing back up to her full height, Azriel takes note of the witch, she truly was bare foot and shorter than Amren. Her wrap was old and worn, her dress underneath thin, covered in uneven patchwork and stitches and the hem of her skirts tattered. Hanging from her neck and waist by lengths of twine were engraved wooden cylinders of varies sizes. Her dark hair tumbling down her back in soft waves to her waist, the witch’s blue eyes skim across the room before settling on the fireplace.

“Your home is beautiful”. She confesses with a smile as she closes her shawl around her again.

“Welcome to Velaris, Moira of Lethe. Come take a place by our fire,” Rhysand bids the witch deeper into the room.

She pads silently across the room making an effort to keep space and furniture between herself and her host and not turn her back to the room. She makes her way up to the far side of the mantel leg, stepping onto the raise hearth and squatting down, her hands coming dangerously close to the flames as she warms herself, mumbling her thanks as she turns her gaze from the fire to Feyre again.

The witch is rubbing warmth into her hands when suddenly she grimaces then shoots a glare to Rhysand and hisses between her teeth, “It is rude, majesty, to intrude on a person’s mind without consent and as a human it’s absurdly painful.”

Rhysand and Feyre look taken back at her words, they exchange a glance to one another before sitting down themselves.

“Apologies, Moira but you must understand my necessity to know what it is you are doing in my court”, Rhysand justifies.

“Then ask me.” The witch demands, “I will answer all your questions. There is no need for you to exude yourself, High Lord.”

“How will we know your answers are honest?” Feyre questions.

“What is the point of having the Morrigan here, if not to tell you when I am lying?” berates the girl.

Azriel feels Morrigan’s ire but she doesn’t react but to narrow her eyes at the wonderer.

Rhysand exhales from his nose, “Fair enough. Answer this than how did you find Velaris?”

“The Suriel”, she answers without delay.

“The Suriel is dead”, informs Feyre.

“I know.” The girl’s voice softens, her hand cups one of the cylinders hanging near her chest, “he showed me the way, long ago.”

“How many of my residence have you spoken with today and why?” Rhysand inquires.

“Besides you and your mate, two. A butcher for a meal and an elder for directions”, she asserts.

“You drink blood, is that your preferred food?” Feyre pries.

“I like warm bread and soft cheese, High Lady. But a cup of lamb’s blood will suffice when I’m hungry and down to my last coppers.”

A haunted look crosses Feyre’s face before continuing, “Rhysand found new spells on the border around the city. Did you cast them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To protect. To conceal. To repel. To kill.”

“From who? Who do you want dead?”

“My kind. The wizards, witches and seers. I cast them as a display of goodwill, I too want to protect those within Velaris.”

“Who exactly?”

“You, Elain and Nesta.”

Feyre’s hands ball into fists in her lap at the mention of her sisters but her face remains calm. Everyone tenses at the witch’s confession.

“Why?” Feyre demands, her voice harder than before.

“Because you are the last,” she replies. _What does she mean?_ Azriel wonders. She sighs, looking back into the fire and continuing, “They took the Cauldron in the dead of night to hide far away, now Elain and Nesta are all of what’s left of its power. There are those who seek to know what it gave them and to know what was taken, there are those who want to use your sisters to find the Cauldron again.”

_How does she know this? No one is supposed to know anything about the disappearance of the Cauldron after the war._

Rhysand sneers, “My mate and her sisters are well cared for and protected here. Tell me Moira, what more security can you offer them besides some spells against their own kind?”

The witch locks eyes with his High Lord and retorts, “Tell me Rhysand, what do you know about witches or seers or our powers? Nesta was made more powerful by what she stole but she must first learn about herself from one of her own. Tell me Rhysand, does she even know what she took? She must master her own gifts and then whatever it was she took from the Cauldron. Tell me Rhysand, how will you protect Nesta Archeron from herself?”

“I will”. Amren answers from the foyer, everyone turns to see her sauntering in.

“How noble of you, Amren.” Coos the girl, “but you are not what you once were and even then, you were never a witch.”

Amren bares her teeth. The witch narrows her eyes.

Azriel's grip tightens on his blade but Feyre speaks before a fight can begin, “what did you mean Nesta must master herself before she can master the power from the Cauldron? She was made a witch by the Cauldron?”

“Elain was made fae and gifted with the sight by the Couldron, yes. But Nesta,” the witch smiles wide, showing teeth. “Nesta was made fae and then she stole, stole because she could, Nesta is a born witch. Her gifts only coming to fruition by the Cauldron, not given. It is why the Spring Lord’s glamour failed to blind her, glamours don’t work on us.” She states and turns to stare straight into the shadows of the far corner.

Azriel stares back at the witch, a smirk playing at her lips. _She can see me; she knew I was here the whole time. She chose her place by the fire to keep an eye on me._ Everyone looks between him and the girl, not believing it. He steps out of the shadows into the dim light from the fireplace.

“You’re the one who’s been following me since entering the Night Court?” She inquires.

Azriel gives her nothing.

After a beat, she nods to herself and sighs, rocking back on her heels and falling onto her butt, she extends her legs across the hearth and wiggles her toes.

“You know things you shouldn’t know, how?” Rhysand finally asks.

“The Suriel but now I just listen to the wind”, she answers.

“Why do you want to help my sisters, my family?” ask Feyre, her voice thick.

The witch turns to look at Feyre then, her eyes filled with sorrow. “Because I know what it is to be alone, High Lady. I know what it is to be helpless. To not know how to protect myself. To not know how to wield that power from within. To watch loved ones die and be powerless to save them. I was a child when my coven fell but now I have a chance to help another witch from those who wish to harm her, use her, control her.”

Feyre swallows hard, “How do I know you’re not here to do that yourself?”

“Ask me.”

“Have you come to harm my family?”

“No”.

“Have you come to use my sisters to find the Cauldron?”

“No”.

“Have you come to kill me or my sisters?”

“No”, she answers.

Everyone turns to Morrigan then. Morrigan looks from the witch to Feyre, “She speaks truthfully, High Lady.”

“How old are you, Moira?” Feyre ask the girl, who’s now watching the flames dance across the log.

“Seventeen.”

“How old were you when your coven fell?” Rhysand asks next.

“Eight.”

 _Because I know what it is to be alone… to be helpless_. Her words loop through Azriel’s mind. _She knows what it’s like_.

The clock above the mantle begins to chime, everyone looks up and watches it announces the late hour.

The girl slowly rises and steps away from the fireplace, “I know you want to protect your sisters, Feyre but I want them to protect themselves. Speak with your sisters, tell them what was said here tonight and let them decide.”

Feyre’s eyes are bright with unshed tears as she stands, “thank you for your honest counsel, Moira.”

Rhysand stands up, placing a hand on the small of Feyre’s back.

The girl looks between Feyre and Rhysand before replying, “thank you for not killing me for my forwardness.”

Feyre lets out a choked noise and Azriel isn’t sure if it’s a sob or a laugh. _Perhaps a bit of both_.

The witch smiles, her hand wrapping around the same cylinder on her chest as she looks out the front windows, “your city truly is as lovely as he always claimed it would be. He would have loved it here if he had ever dared enter, he was a dreamer. A dreamer with a face of a monster.” She looks back at Feyre, giving her a sad smile and tugging on the roll around her neck snapping the string and handing it to Feyre. “There is great magic in Suriel ashes. Vretil would’ve wanted you to have them, he would’ve wanted to be here in the Court of Dreams.”

Feyre clutches the wooden tube to her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks in earnest, “Vretil? His name was Vretil?”

The girl’s brows pinch in confusion, “He spoke so fondly of you, I thought you knew him well? How is it you didn’t know his name, Feyre?”

“I asked too late”, Feyre’s voice breaks.

The witch gives her a sad but understanding look.

“Thank you”, Rhysand replies for his mate, bringing his arm around Feyre.

The girl looks up at Rhysand then with a fearful look on her face and after a few heaving breaths that make her chest visibly rise and fall, she snatches another cylinder from around her neck and gives it to the High Lord with a trembling hand. Rhysand looks down at the small engraved roll now in his hand and the witch steps away from him.

“Long ago, I witnessed the Spring Lord light a great pyre that raged all night. In it he placed two sets of wings that I knew had no business in the Spring Court.” Azriel’s heart has stopped, _no, they can’t be, this is a cruel trick,_ Amren’s mouth is open a gasp, eyes wide and Morrigan has stood from her seat, the shock clear on her face. “I waited until dawn after the Lord had returned to his manor, I walked through the dying embers and collected the ashes before fleeing.” She confesses, her voice shaky, “it was a long time before I learned who they belonged to and I’m sorry it took me so much longer to return them home.”

Tears fall from Rhysand’s eyes onto the wooden roll in his hand. Feyre looks between her mate’s face and the cylinder. Rhysand slowly looks back up at Moira.

She shudders, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Rhysand mouths, his voice failing him.

Moira nods and breaks for the front door, her hand on the doorknob when Feyre finds her voice again, “Where will you be?”

“The Weaver’s cottage”, she turns and replies, keeping her hand on the doorknob.

Feyre looks at her in disbelief, “what? Why there?”

Moira sighs, “there is powerful magic in her old home, it will protect me.” She looks at Azriel a moment before continuing, “Send me a whisper with your shadowsinger if you wish to call on me.”

Feyre looks at Azriel before addressing her again, “It’s late and cold, let me find you a place in Velaris for the night.”

“Thank you for your kindness, High Lady but no. I must go and I have just enough strength in me to get where I need to be.” Before Feyre can insist again, Moira opens the door and pulls up her hood, “Good night.”

* * *

  **FEYRE**

The silence that follows Moira’s departure is deafening and eternal. Feyre’s grip on the Suriel’s ashes grows tighter. She turns to her mate, who brushes his thumb across his cylinder’s engravings, the chaos of emotions that she feels across their bond is devastating. … _I want them to protect themselves_ , her mind repeats the witch’s every word, she turns to Morrigan, “she was honest”. It’s not really a question but Mor nods all the same.

The sound of footsteps echo loud throughout the house before her sisters appear, Cassian and Lucien trailing behind. By the grimness on their faces she knows, they heard everything.

Azriel clears his throat, “do you want me to follow her?”

She reaches across the bond again but Rhysand’s mind is still so far away. She looks out the window at the light snowfall. A shiver runs down her spine as she recalls Moira’s bare feet. Feyre remembers the cold during winter, south of the wall, when she was human. She remembers the hunger. She should have Azriel bring her back, _…down to my last coppers_. She should have offered her food.

“No, we will leave her be," she decides. The Spymaster’s jaw clenches but dips his head, he doesn’t like her decision any more than she does.

She looks at her sisters, a mix of curiosity and fear play on both their pretty faces. _…let them decide_. Feyre remembers why she had begun to fall in love with Rhysand, _he had always given me a choice_. She knew then Moira is right, no one but Nesta and Elain could decide their fates for them.


	3. Chapter 3

**MOIRA**

The hush over Velaris is unnerving but she doesn’t look back to the townhouse. She’s astonished it had all gone so well, even after Amren’s re-arrival, they had really listened, considered her offer and she wasn’t currently fighting her way out of the Night Court. _It’s a damned miracle!_

Giving the High Lord, his mother’s and sister’s ashes straight away was her biggest risk tonight but he received them with such reverence that she knew she had played that hand right _, Rhysand will not order my death, he will owe me a debt_.

Moira makes for the end of the city and deep into the northern woods, only stopping when she arrives at the border to listen to the wind. _Nothing, the shadowsinger isn’t following this time_. She walks through the barrier and feels the magic course through her, pausing to admire her work, _these spells will hold,_ she had made them so powerful they could even turn against her if she returned to Velaris with ill intent toward the Archeron sisters. _Good_ , she reasons before winnowing away.

+

It’s raining and the wind is biting as she makes her way up the stairs, some things will never change about this horrible place. The black stone is cold under her feet and hands; she climbs step-by-step as she’s done hundreds of times before. _In the rain, in the cold, in the dark._

The inmates smell her upon entering and taught her, inviting her into their cells for the night, she pays the jeers no mind as she continues her trek down.

In the gloom of the cell, his scent is overwhelming. She half expects him to emerge from the shadows but the cold that now settles over this space affirms that she is alone.

She lights a fire and studies the collection of bones amassed in the far corner, finding nothing new. She begins searching the walls, running her fingers over them and the ceiling.

He had carved thousands of deaths, had told her the stories of every etching here- who they were, where they came from and when they met their end- and now she wants to see if he’d carved his own.

She stifles a yawn, fighting her fatigue as she combs across the room, but when her vision begins to blur she gives up. Removing her shawl and untying the remaining cylinders from around her waist and neck, placing them in a corner near the pallet, she shakes out the blankets to lie down for the night.

It’s when she rests her head on the pillow facing the wall she sees it, partially obscured by the covers. Her heart skips a beat as she eyes the carving she knows was never there before. _Of course, he would put it here, right where I would see it when I come to bed_.

Timidly she pulls back the blanket to reveal the entire image, it’s beautiful and tragic, grand and simple all at once but most importantly it’s accurate.

Moira’s body heaves with the sobs that escape her and she doesn’t fight it as her body shakes in anticipation for him to come now as he always has, to lie down behind her and wrap her in his warmth, an arm cradling her head, the other to rest over her stomach, their legs in twined. To feel his breath on the shell of her ear but he never comes.

_Not this time, not ever again. He left you, he didn’t wait for you._

She reaches for the larger cylinder, holding it to her chest and allows her tears to drown out her desolation as she mourns the Bone Carver and yields to her widowhood.

* * *

  **RHYSAND**

He hardly slept last night while wrapped in Feyre’s arms, his head nestled on her breasts, they both wept, the wooden cylinders on the bed next to them. He knew who they were, the ashes the moment she put them in his hand.

Rhysand had long ago come to terms that he would never have closure over the deaths of his mother and sister but now they were home. A human had saved them and brought them back to him and she had looked at him with such fear and remorse. _She had thought I was going to kill her._

He wonders if he can ever repay Moira’s kindness or if he even should and as the dawn light seeps into the bedroom he questions for the hundredth time if this is some kind of hoax, some spell the witch has cast over him, over his family and their home. But he always comes back to the same conclusion _, no_. He always remembers the sincerity in her eyes.

At breakfast, Feyre, Elain, Nesta, Cassian, Morrigan and himself all sat in silence, everyone looking as somber as he felt. No one ate but moving their food around their plates and drinking their morning brews.

Making their shame that more palpable, _a cup of lamb’s blood will suffice_ , Rhys sipped his tea but desired something stronger after last night.

Feyre had expressed guilt this morning about allowing Moira to leave so late in the cold to the Middle. _Is she there now? Is she safe?_

He looks at his mate and wonders again how to broach the topic of the witch to her sisters. She meets his gaze before grimacing as she downs the rest of her own tea and turns to Elain and Nesta. Feyre’s mouth opens and closes a few times as if she isn’t sure what she wants to say or what it is she wants to ask of her sisters.

Before she can find the right words to say, Elain cuts her off, “I want to meet her”.

Everyone looks up at her then, in the corner of the room, the shadows swirl and he knows that Azriel has turned his attention to the conversation. Nesta has gone completely still as she stares down at the tea mug in her hands.

Elain continues, “I want to hear what she has to say, maybe she could help me understand...” She trails off not knowing what it is she is hoping for.

Nesta shakes her head, “what’s the point now? Where was this witch before the war? When I needed… When she could’ve been of use?” the bitterness clear in her words. “Amren gave me lessons and it all failed when I needed it most. There is nothing to learn, I’m just a fae with a connection to the Cauldron, whatever power it gave me seems to be dormant. What could this girl know that Amren doesn’t?”

Rhysand knows she is referring to her father’s death and her inability to prevent it.

Cassian’s eyes fill with remorse as Feyre answers her, “You can ask Moira, if you meet with her. Morrigan can be there so she won’t lie. Nothing is your fault, Nesta. Your power, your connection to the Cauldron is why Cassian is here.”

Nesta doesn’t respond but her shoulders tense.

Rhysand interrupts, “Moira is right too, about Amren not being a witch that is.” Everyone turns to look at him, “perhaps she is the proper tutor for you and Elain. If her gift of spells on Velaris are any indication”, he circles his finger in the air, “she’s bound to know something.”

Nesta simply shakes her head no again, “I don’t care. I want nothing to do with her.” She declares, her voice low but firm as she rises and leaves the table without another word.

Cassian looks compelled to follow her but wisely stays seated, leaning back in his chair and running his hands down his face.

“I still want to meet her.” Elain’s voice is soft, “Nesta will come around, I’ll speak with her.”

Feyre smiles at her sister encouragingly, “Then we will make arrangements to meet Moira as soon as you’re ready.”

Everyone had given up on eating Rhysand waves his hand across the table and everything vanishes, they make to get up when Lucien and Amren rush into the room side by side, looking exhausted. The former carrying an old book, “she’s lying, she lied about her age!” He proclaims while placing the open book on the table.

Everyone leans in and to look at the page, even Azriel enters the room now and comes to stand near the table. Rhysand reads the title on the page out loud, “The Fall of Lethe”.

Morrigan shakes her head and gestures to the book, “I was there last night, she spoke truthfully. What does this have to do with her age?”

Amren clarifies, “He’s right. I found him in the library last night and he told me everything she said before I arrived and what she said about being from Lethe. Moira can’t be a teenager; Lethe was destroyed over eight centuries ago. We spent the night pouring over volumes until we found this one with a history of the witches’ colony on Lethe.”

Rhysand looks wide-eyed between Amren and Lucien then down at the book. Feyre quickly snatches it to her and begins reading, Elain leaning over her shoulder.

Lucien explains, “Lethe was a small island in the south sea. As far as the island records show it was always a great witches coven. For over millennia, whenever a girl, human or fae was discovered to be a witch, she was sent to Lethe. From all over the world, not just Prythian or the continent. Once their lessons were complete and were of age they were free to come and go as they pleased.”

He stopped to catch his breath before continuing, Nesta returns but stays by the door, her arms crossed.

“Eight hundred and forty years ago, A dark wizard deceived several mortal kingdoms from the continent and other far off lands that the witches of Lethe were planning a war and the only way to stop it was to attack first. The empires believed him and gathered a great armada to sail against Lethe and completely surround it. The island was protected by powerful enchantments that took days of brute strength and blood magic from the wizard to destroy but once those defenses failed, the massacre began, the mortals lost great numbers in the first days of the conflict. As the mortals and witches fought and killed and died, little did they know that the wizard had immediately begun to kidnap young defenseless witches from the island and stashing them on his own ship. It was discovered too late that was his plan all along, to use the mortal armies as his personal hunting dogs. The humans realized their error after the last elder had been killed and the wizard had long since sailed away with his prizes. With the island void of witches, a volcano in the center of the island erupted and the waves surged up to meet the fire and ash, those on the island perished instantly while those in boats and ships too close to shore were sucked into the chaos, as the sea swallowed the island down into its depths. Few escaped the disaster, the wizard was never found and it was unknown how many girls he took”. Lucien concludes, his face livid.

Rhysand’s head is spinning and he is glad to be seated, recalling Moira’s answers from last night. _She was eight when her coven fell. Could she be one of these girls?_

He feels sick and a quick glance around at his court reveals he’s not the only one.

“Moira witnessed the Fall of Lethe.” Elain breathes, “she wants to help protect Nesta and I from this wizard or others like him.”

Amren concurs, “Yes, I believe the witch is here to help. But first we need to know how she is still alive? What magic is she using to stay young?”

Rhysand nods, “I want to know too. That kind of magic in humans in most cases is blood magic of some sort.”

“What of the wizard?” Elain asks, looking at Lucien.

Lucien shakes his head, “We found nothing here on him but we can check the other libraries”.

“There is something else,” Amren adds, “last night, she said she ‘listens to the wind’ but that’s not possible. The only beings besides myself, who can understand the wind are all in the Prison. How can a human witch make such a claim?”

“You’re suggesting that she’s been to the Prison? A human?” Feyre deadpans.

Amren shrugs.

“Has there ever been a human inmate in the Prison?” Elain inquires.

Amren and Azriel shake their heads as Cassian elaborates, “No. There is nothing in the records about human inmates, no human is supposed to know about the Prison.” He groans before continuing, “If this witch is as old as you’re implying, is capable of blood magic, of listening to the wind, if it’s possible that she has been to the Prison, that potentially makes her very dangerous. She’s in the Middle now perhaps we should pay her a visit first before allowing her to return to Velaris, before letting her near Elain or Nesta.”

“Are you proposing Azriel interrogate her?” Morrigan asks over the rim of her wine glass.

Rhysand’s eyes flicker to his Spymaster and his magic blade but before he can entertain the thought of meeting Moira first, Feyre snarls. “Despite what she is hiding, she is likely our best and only choice to help my sisters unlock their gifts.” His mate interjects, “she gave those ashes freely last night and I take them as proof of her benevolence. If there is a chance she was one of these victims of this wizard,” pointing at the book in front of her, “I will not risk adding to her torment”. Everyone looks properly scolded now, Rhysand included, he’s thoughts drift to Clotho and the other priestesses in the library as she goes on, “But yes, Moira does have a story to tell and we will hear the truth from her. Until then we will go to the libraries and find everything we can about Lethe, about witches or wizards, anything we can find to help us be better informed before calling Moira back.”

“Very well, let’s get started.” Rhysand cues in while everyone begins to stand and file out toward the library. He turns to Azriel then, “in the meantime, I need you to locate Bryaxis.” Azriel nods and Cassian looks noticeably ashen at the mention of the creature.

* * *

  **FEYRE**

They spend the next two days scouring all the libraries of Velaris for anything related to Lethe or witches.

They find little, one book contained a list of the most famous Elder witches from the island, including Baba Yaga, whom they all believed to be a myth. Another book detailing after the destruction of Lethe, many witches on the continent gave themselves willingly to the sorcerer in the lake, the same one who now held Queen Vassa. And finally, an entire text describing the world-wide witch/wizard wars that broke out as a result of the sacking of Lethe. The book contained a few dozen names of slain wizards believed guilty of the pillage of Lethe but there was no hard evidence behind any of the claims.

Their search turns up nothing pertaining to Moira or the other witches stolen away from Lethe or the wizard who took them.

After exhausting every lead, they finally give up and Feyre takes her sisters on a shopping trip through Velaris. She gives them a tour of the Rainbow and Market Squares and they dine that evening at her favorite restaurant by the Sidra at sunset.

The majority of their meal is spent with Feyre and Elain trying to persuade Nesta to meet with Moira without upsetting her. By dessert and a few glasses of wine their eldest sister relents, slurring into her wine glass, “did you think I would let Elain face her alone?”

Feyre doesn’t know or care if Nesta’s remark is meant as a slight against her but she counts it as a victory all the same. Relaying the good news across the bond to her mate, giving the go-ahead to send word to Moira in the morning.

They return to the House of Wind and find a letter from the mortal realm regarding the next treaty meeting, to be held in six weeks at her family’s old home. Rhysand immediately sends out the invitations to the other Fae courts and Drakon’s.

In bed later that night, Rhysand wraps himself around her from behind after they make love and their breathing slowly returns to normal, Feyre looks over at the two engraved cylinders displayed on the nightstand. “Do you think she’ll wants something in return for helping my sisters?”

“Possibly.” He answers lazily with a kiss to the back of her neck. “But it is your sister’s decision whether they accept any offer made to them, we can only advise them. They must make the choice for themselves.” Rhysand squeezes her before pointing toward the nightstand and continuing, “but I think those are proof of Moira’s honesty and good heart. You’re right, she could have kept them forever or bargained with them.”

Feyre sighs, “I believe she could be a good person, she knew the Suriel’s name and spoke of him like they were friends and he was a good soul, a dreamer like us. Maybe Moira’s a dreamer too.” _We will find out._ Feyre truly wants to believe in Moira like she believed everything the Suriel ever told her. She drifts to sleep remembering her promise to Vritil, _leave this world a better place than how you found it._


	4. Chapter 4

**MOIRA**

~

It’s been a fortnight since they arrived to the fortress but she isn’t sure, there are no windows here, no sun or moonlight, no way to tell time. Just constant suffering, the smell of shit and vomit combined with the suffocating heat from the fireplace makes the cellar insufferable.

Trapped in their tiny cages their blood, sweat and tears are their only comfort now. They weep for Lethe and their lost sisters, but mostly they weep for what is to come. _What does this wizard want from us?_

Hunger gnaws at them, their stomachs roar in protest at their lack of food and drink. In desperation, the little ones consume their own filth and her older sisters have begun attacking the younger ones through the bars of the crates. One little seer has already lost three fingers on her left hand and the bite on her right foot has started to fester. _If this wizard’s plan is to turn us all wicked, he is succeeding._

Moira sits still in the center of her pen, her arms hugging her legs to her chest, her head resting on her knees. She tries to ignore their misery and pain, tries to ignore the guilt she feels of being the strongest among them and failing to save them from this new reality. What little magic and spells they possess isn’t enough to break the powerful enchantments on the bars of their cells.

In the crate on her right is Lethe’s first shadowsinger in over a century and thankfully she is sleeping, when awake she wails and doesn’t stop. She doesn’t know how to control her shadows, doesn’t understand that they are her friends, there to help her. No, the little one just cries, begs the Mother to make them go away, pleads to the Cauldron to end this eternal darkness. Moira can only woo her back to sleep because she isn’t vicious enough to truly end her anguish properly, even if deep down she knows it would be a mercy.

Across the chamber a door creaks open, they sit up and watch as their captor enters and the room begins to fill with the rattling of cages and frantic screams of Moira and her sisters as they renew their futile fight to break free from this Hell.

~

Moira wakes with a start, bolting from the bed as she looks around, trying to remember where she is. _You’re in Stryga’s cottage, it was just a nightmare._ Faint sunlight filters through the windows of the cramped hut, her thin white shift clings to her sweat drench body. Moira’s skin crawls as she tries to forget the fading memory of that cruel laugh. _Never again._

The fire is nearly dead and her breath is visible when she exhales. Fighting the twisting in her stomach, she wraps herself in a blanket and goes about reviving the fire.

It’s been four days since her visit with the Night Court and she arrived to the Middle last night after she couldn’t take another moment of being alone in that cell. But the Weaver’s home gave her little comfort, with its horrid death stench and the horrible howling of whatever hunts in these dark woods, it’s really no surprise sleep would take her back to such a sinister time.

Her guts churn again but she ignores her gagging by opening the door to let fresh air in. She stands on the threshold and checks the surrounding woods for anything suspicious, nothing.

Satisfied, she wonders back into the cottage and begins inspecting the Weaver’s many treasures. Only looking and taking note of everything but never touching, not wanting to risk any curse the Weaver may have laid on her horde. It’s not until she’s near the back of the room and reaches the loom that the smell of rotting flesh becomes unbearable and Moira retches all over the sawdust covered floor.

When she’s done, she grips a table for support as she walks around her mess and goes to the water basin. _You can’t stay here, it’s not safe, go back to the Prison_. She washes out her mouth and splashes water on her face. _Go home._ She rejects that treacherous thought. _Fresh air than, fresh air will do good._

Moira puts on her dress and shawl before stepping out into the morning dew, a light layer of snow covering the yard and trees. She leaves the door open and sits on the front step, wondering when she will receive word from Feyre and Rhysand when she hears a branch snap beyond the tree line.

She scans the panorama as she rises and takes a step back up into the house, _someone is watching_ , she sends out a shadow to survey as she steps fully into the cottage and rest her hand on the door, ready to slam it shut.

She waits on bated breath for her shadow to return when a silhouette comes into view and steps out of the shade of the trees, an Illyrian, his wings tucked in tight behind him. Her grip on the door tightens and her heart begins to race wildly as he comes to stand in the middle of the clearing in front of her. The Night’s Court shadowsinger has come to pay her a visit.

She swallows dry as he watches her. Her little shadow returns whispering in her ear. His eyes look her up and down, his expression giving away nothing.

She lets go of the door and crosses her arms under her breast as she leans on the doorframe, “I told you a shadow would do, there was no need for you to make this trip.” Moira says trying to sound bolder than what she felt.

He studies her in silence a bit longer and she quickly checks the forest again and wonders if this is a trap, _maybe the shadow missed something_ , before he replies. “I’ve come alone, and I didn’t come here for you.”

“Oh”, she hums. “In that case, run along. I’m sure you can conduct your business elsewhere that won’t obstruct my view.”

Moira’s mind- the part that has kept her alive so long- screams at her to stop antagonizing the male but she can’t find it in herself to shut up.

His head tilts and his eyes narrow causing a shiver to run down her spin as she tries to keep a neutral look. _Stupid girl, look what you’ve done!_

“What do they call you shadowsinger?” She blurts out to fill the growing silence.

“Spymaster”

“A fitting title and trade for such gifts. Tell me, does the Night Court pay you well?” She inquires.

“Who pays you, witch? What do you use your shadows for, besides attacking others?” The spymaster retorts, ignoring her question.

“I couldn’t have them sending word and ruining my grand entrance. Surely, you’re not upset about my friends quarreling with yours, Spymaster?” She counters mockingly. She lifts a hand in the air as her shadows race around her forearm and lace through her fingers. Before continuing in a sterner tone, “I haven’t encountered another like you since I was a girl.” She admits. “It was never my intention to harm your spies and for the record, no one has ever paid me to spy, these are my friends and I owe them my life.”

He gives her a calculating stare. “And how long ago did you know this fellow shadowsinger?”

The way he structures his question irks at her, like he’s trying to catch her in a lie. She feels no inclination to do so but keeps her answer short and vague. “Long ago, Spymaster. How many have you known?”

“Two.” He replies quickly. “The one who trained me, he was killed during the war and yourself. Who taught you to master them?” His shadows whirl around his wings above his shoulders, making themselves known.

“No one, it’s all trial and error.” She admits.

A look crosses his face, a mixture of anger and pity. It’s gone within a second as the silence grows between them again.

The sun peaks above the canopy of trees and the forest comes to life.

She studies him, ignoring the part of her brain that notes how magnificently beautiful he is. She counts his seven blue siphons and remembers what she knew about Illyrians and their strength as her eyes continue travelling down, stopping at his waist when she sees the short blade on his hip. _That blade_. She pushes away from the doorframe, her hands falling to her sides in fists.

“Where did you get that?” Her voice low and dangerous.

He palms the hilt and she steps back, her hackles rising.

“This is Truth-Teller, this blade has never failed me in the centuries I’ve wielded it.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t”. She spits, looking him in the eyes. Her right hand coming behind her back as an ash dagger materializes in her closed fist. “Tell me Illyrian, how many witches have you slain with it? Am I the next? Nesta? Elain?”

He looks utterly lost at her accusations and it’s immediately obvious he has no idea how much blood is on that blade.

“None and I told you I haven’t come here for you.” He practically snarls at her as he draws the blade and lays it flat in his palms as if he were offering it to her. “Elain stabbed the King of Hybern with this blade. Nesta used it to decapitate him. I would never use it against them or you.”

She feels sick again but she swallows it, her shadows circling about as they attempt to comfort her. She believes him, she feels the truth in his words like she feels the wood in her grip.

“We call it the Witches’ Bane and the only truth about that cursed steel is Alatar used it to destroy Lethe.” She reveals wrathfully.

He looks skeptically between her and the blade before tucking it back into his belt, he opens his mouth to speak but Moira has had enough banter for today. “Be on your way, Spymaster. We’re done here.” She steps away and the door slams shut.

The door rattles a second later as he crashes into it. “No, wait!”

“Leave!” She yells at the closed door.

The entire front wall shakes as he shoulders it a few more times but she doesn’t even flinch. Last night, something larger and stronger tried braking in and failed, she knows he will too.

He gives up with a frustrated growl, “I didn’t know.” He punches the door again. “I swear.”

“I don’t care. Go!” She answers, her voice cracking. She takes a few deep breaths trying to calm herself when she sees his shadows creep in under the door. “Get out!”

She sends her own shadows to attack but when they snake across the floor to meet the intruders they pause before dancing around each other. She can feel her shadows’ inquisitiveness to finally interact with something like themselves. Moira wants to scream from frustration but can’t find it in herself to be angry at them. She watches as their shadows frolic around in the space between herself and the door.

The doorknob jingles and the wood creaks as he tries to open it again. Desperate to see for himself what she is witnessing before her, what she knows he can feel through his connection with his shadows. Minutes pass before he gets that she truly isn’t going to open up again and his shadows retreat, hers following but she doesn’t allow them outside.

“I bring word from Elain.” He purrs.

Her voice breathy. “And?”

“She wants to meet you.” He explains. “You are to return to Velaris in two days. My High Lord and High Lady want a word with you beforehand. They have questions and rules they want to set in place before the meeting.”

“What of Nesta?” She asks warily.

“Nesta has agreed to be present but has made it clear that she wants nothing from you.” He concludes.

Moira’s heart and mind race. _Two days. Two days to prepare._ She’s pulled from her thoughts at a roar that rips through the forest, so loud it shakes the foundation of the little cottage.

“It’s time you leave, Spymaster.” She warns.

“You can’t stay here.” The door handle clatters again. “Come with me.”

The roaring grows louder, the sound of snapping trees nearing.

“Fly now, you fool!”

There is one last thump on the door before she hears the fluttering of wings and she releases the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding before backing away from the door.

She’s nearly to the back of the room when something collides with the front of the hut with so much force she’s knocked off her feet, the dagger flying out of her hand and causing many of the Weaver’s trinkets to tumble to the floor.

The screeching that follows vibrates through her entire body as a creeping shadow blacks out all the windows. Moira crawls across the floor and under the bed, her eyes fixed on the shattering door and the tentacles of darkness now seeping in.

Fear seizes her and she prays to the Mother that the Illyrian doesn’t return.

* * *

  **AZRIEL**

He only looks down once, the second it rebounded off the cottage with a howl and that moment is all it takes for him to understand Cassian’s terror of it.

His shadows pleading with him to return, to go back for Moira but the dread he feels won’t allow him.

No, he was sent to find Bryaxis and inform the witch of the meeting and now he’s done both. He winnows back to the Night Court as guilt consumes him.

Azriel returns to the House of Wind that evening and reports to Rhysand and Feyre immediately. Confirming that Moira was indeed at the Weaver’s cottage and had received their message and informs them that Bryaxis is roaming the Middle.

He visits Elain in the library upon learning of her newest vision. She sits in a chair near the windows overlooking the gardens, Lucien and Nesta loiter nearby but say nothing when he approaches the seer and sits himself on a low ottoman across from her. She smiles at him, her eyes big as he returns the gesture before she repeats her foreknowledge.

“A demon from the mountains will be burned with a kiss”. She explains. “His skin is like a frozen sea with black markings like oil painted across. His eyes glitter like gold.”

The words echo around Azriel’s mind as he tries to make sense of them. “We will decipher your revelations before they come to fruition.” He reassures her.

“There is also the God-Wife.” She continues. “That name keeps ringing in my head, like an echo not a warning. Have you heard of her?”

Azriel shakes his head, his brow pinched.

Elain nods coolly before returning her attention to the view beyond and rolling her iron ring around her finger. He studies her a bit longer before standing and leaving her to her peace.

He heads to the study where he joins Feyre and Rhysand who are pouring over books. He looks over them all before placing Truth-Teller on the table before him. “The witch told me a wizard named Alatar used this to bring down Lethe”. Pointing at the knife. “Does that name sound familiar?”

Feyre looks up at him, her eyes widen at his revelation, she immediately opens a large book at the end of the table. “This contains a long list of wizards accused of the atrocities on Lethe. Some just state a name and many were later found to be innocent but some have descriptions with many more allegations to their names.” She flips through pages and asks. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“I want to be sure. It could all be a lie, High Lady”. He justifies but doesn’t believe it because he had felt Moira’s distress through her shadows when his own had courted hers, not of him but of Truth-Teller. Azriel had seen the fear mount on her pretty face when she had eyed it. “Have you found anything relating to what Elain has seen?”

Rhysand shakes his head. “I thought the God-Wife was just an old mortal myth told to scare disobedient children on the continent.” He admits.

Azriel cocks his eyebrows in agreement.

“Here, Alatar the Abominable”. Feyre reads out loud. “Mortal wizard known for using blood magic and wielder of powerful magical weapons, a sword and staff. Implicated in over seventy murders and abductions. Wanted in two dozen human and fae courts. Suspected deceiver of Lethe.” She turns the book then to read an entry made by a different hand on the margin of the page. “Mutilated body found in burned down fortress believed to be Alatar. Remains of children locked in cages found inside.”

They stand over the table rereading the paragraph in silence again and again until the words begin to blur together.

“She’s a shadowsinger.” Azriel confesses out loud.

“What?!” Feyre gasps.

“That’s how she managed to fight your shadows.” Rhysand says while crossing his arms over his chest. “Can humans be shadowsingers?”

Azriel shakes his head. “Not that I know of but she is a witch. Maybe it’s different with their kind.”

“You wanted something to be amiss?” His High Lord asks. Azriel begins pacing the room, trying to calm his raging mind and doesn’t answer the question, doesn’t have to because Rhysand had pluck the thought straight from his mind. There’s so much she isn’t telling them and he wants to know what she is hiding, why she had chosen now to come to the Night Court.

He stops after a minute of silence. “Perhaps Morrigan and Cassian have the right idea. Let’s go to her, just the three of us to ask your questions.” He proposes while eyeing Truth-Teller, still on the table.

Feyre looks up at Rhysand as he runs a hand through his hair, “Moira claims to have come here to help Elain and Nesta. They are your sisters, this is your decision.” He tells her.

She looks from her mate to the Spymaster to the blade and books on the table before answering. “We will leave tomorrow morning. I want Morrigan here with my sisters until we return.”

At dinner, his shadows come and go informing him of all he has missed while away. Amren has still been keeping away and Morrigan disappeared for two days after an outing at Rita’s and only re-emerged this afternoon. Azriel watches her from across the table. She looks happy, a slight glow to her skin and a rosiness to her cheeks that wasn’t there the last time he saw her. He wants to ask her where she’s been? Wants to know what or who has put her in such good spirits? But he keeps his jealousy to himself. It’s not his place to demand that from his friend. Even if it kills him inside.

He scarcely sleeps that night, his thoughts racing between Morrigan and seeing the witch again come morning. It’s nearly dawn when he gives up on the endeavor of sleep completely and begins to dress for the day, he dons his leathers and tucks Truth-Teller into his belt.

His High Lord and Lady meet him in the courtyard as the skies begin to lighten and the stars vanish one-by-one over Velaris. Feyre produces her wings and they take to the sky before Rhys winnows them all to the Middle.

They arrive deep in the woods, the morning fog thick around them. The smell of smoke and burned wood and straw pungent in the air. They draw their great swords and begin making their way toward the hut when they hear a male voice coming from ahead. The haze is nearly gone in the clearing and they take cover behind the trees at the edge of the glade and watch as armed soldier survey the burned remains of the Weaver’s cottage.

Azriel doesn’t want to believe what he is seeing, doesn’t want to accept that he had left her here to this fate. His guilt quickly turns to rage and he wants nothing more than to kill them all when Rhysand enters his mind. _“Don’t”_.

Azriel lets out a steady breath and quickly understands why he shouldn’t act just yet. He surveys the men, four are fae, the rest mortal, thirteen in total. Their eyes are all the same, yellow almost glowing. A human issues orders for three men to enter and search the charred ruins of the hut while the fae soldiers patrol nearby.

They begin shifting through the debris with their swords and quarterstaff. One of them bends down to pick something up but when he touches the object, the man quickly bolts up with a wail of pain as his hand begins to turn black and rot. Azriel, Rhys and Feyre watch in shock as the others all turn to look at him with no remorse.

“Shut him up.” The leader demands and the man with the staff walks over to the screaming man and with deadly accuracy swings and lands a blow to the back of his head with a sickening crack, the clearing grows silent again as the man falls unceremoniously to the floor.

Without a second look, they all begin their search and watch again and when the second man tries to collect something, it happens again. He falls to his knees in pain, his hand blackening and falling apart, when the man next to him quickly runs his blade through him with such ease as if his brother’s life meant nothing to him. Azriel is convinced these men are mercenaries.

“Sorceress bitch!” The captain mutters.

Rhysand signals them to follow then as he steps forward into the clearing, their arrival surprising the soldiers who quickly grab their weapons and fall into fighting stands.

“Kill the Illyrian filth!” Snarls their captain as he walks away and the remaining fighters charge forward at full speed but before they get within swords length from the Night Court, Rhysand mist them all except the speaker, who looks back in horror before turning and running for the cover of the forest in hopes of escaping.

He doesn’t get far before Azriel winnows in his path and takes him to the ground, Truth-Teller at his throat. The man struggles against Az as he tides him up and drags him back to the feet of his High Lord and Lady.

“What were your men looking for?” Rhysand demands, his voice calm.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” The captain spits, looking over to where the cottage once stood. “All is lost here”.

“Where is she?” Rhysand asks.

The man looks confused. “The Weaver? She was killed during the war with Hybern.”

Azriel skates his knife from the man’s neck to his shoulder and slowly begins sinking it in to the muscle and the man howls in pain.

“No, there was a girl staying here, where is she? Was she inside when you started the fire?” Feyre inquires.

The man takes a staggering breath as Azriel releases the pressure of the blade. “No girl. The flames were nearly dead when we arrived! We didn’t do this.”

“Why did you come here?” Rhysand asks again.

The man snarls again before screaming as the knife twist deeper. “The books! We were sent to retrieve the books!”

“Which books?” Azriel demands.

“All of them.” He whimpers.

“Who sent you?” Aziel asks, rotating the blade again.

“Ommin! My master, Ommin!” He yells.

“Who is Ommin? Where is he?” Feyre demands.

“My master is a powerful sorcerer and he is everywhere he wants to be.” He replies cryptically looking up at Feyre. “He’s here now, he sees your face, Illyrian whore”.

Rhysand and Azriel both snarl and before he can say more Rhysand takes his own sword and drives it into the man’s chest. The man chokes on his blood and when he takes his final breath his eyes turn from yellow to a dull natural shade of green.

Azriel rifles through the man’s pockets for anything of value before moving to the two dead bodies inside the frame of the hut, they too have nothing of evidence on their persons. Their eyes are now natural human shades of brown and he reasons they must have been under some kind of spell.

His shadows search the debris for any human remains, they find burned chunks of flesh but nothing whole.

He had not wanted this, not for her. Azriel’s wings sag but before he can sink into despair, Feyre’s voice rings out from across the clearing.

“Tracks.”

Rhysand and Azriel make their way to her and inspect the footprints themselves. They are hers and head west toward Under the Mountain. They follow Moira’s tracks but they are soon lost in the brush of the woods.

Feyre doesn’t want to give up hope but thinks it best to return to the Night Court, with Bryaxis still about and the many more wicked creatures that rove these parts it wouldn’t be wise for them to idle. Reluctantly Azriel agrees but still sends out his shadows to search in their absence.

* * *

  **MOIRA**

She’s a day late to her meeting with the Night Court. She wonders if they returned for her, if they saw the remains of the cottage and assumed the worst. More than once she thought of sending the Spymaster a whisper but ultimately decided against it.

Moira could have arrived on time if it wasn’t for Bryaxis. The creature had made her trek through the Middle slow as she indulged his curiosity about life and the Cauldron boil her, he was unappeasable.

When they finally arrived to the western sea just south of the Dawn Court, she promised him more stories when they met again as was part of the bargain she grudgingly made with him in exchange for her life.

The travel through the Night Court is easier and she arrives to Velaris just before noon. She enters the city and finds it far busier during the day, the markets, shops and cafes are filled with merchants and customers and goods of all kinds; food, wine, music, jewelery, art, and clothes. Moira slows down to browse the silk dresses and fine leather shoes through the store windows.

It’s not long before the residents begin to eye her cautiously and she confirms their suspicions by pushing her hair behind her small round ears, it’s almost comical how quickly the city sentinels come into her line of sight. They don’t approach her but before long she counts nearly a dozen and she takes it as her hint to continue toward the townhouse.

There are children playing in the street when she crosses and they all stop as Moira walks by, pointing and muttering under their breath. She’s nearly passed them when a little blonde girl skips into her path much to her surprise.

“Hello.” She tugs on her own earlobe looking up at Moira in awe and asks. “Why have you come to Velaris?”

Moira doubts these children have ever known a human. “Hello child, I’ve come to speak with your High Lord and Lady.”

More children begin to gather closer to listen.

“Are you a witch?” an older boy demands boldly but when she looks up at him his bravado quickly dissipates and quickly he adds, “I heard a shopkeeper say ‘only a witch or wizard could ever find their way into the City of Starlight.’”

“I am”. She answers.

Much to the horror of the sentries this revelation only peaks the younglings interest in her and they begin to bombard her with more questions and request to see magic.

Moira puts her hands up in mock surrender and shakes her head, “I am late. I must be on my way, children.”

“Tell us on the way!” Another boy calls and before Moira can protest, the little blonde girl grabs her hand and tugs her down the street with the others in tow.

Moira looks up at the sentinels then, who have now doubled in numbers and they look just as stunned as she does.

So, she caves to the requests of her new travel companions and begins to answer their endless questions about witches, including to her amusement, if she eats children?

Before long she begins to narrate an old fable still popular on the continent as they make their way to the townhouse surrounded by their armed escorts.

* * *

  **AZRIEL**

When his spies tell him of her arrival in the city it takes all his self-control not to fly out to meet her. Instead he informs Rhysand and Feyre, who seem relieved to hear of her survival as they begin to prepare.

Azriel flies down to the townhouse with Cassian to pick up Morrigan. They perch on the banisters of the stoop as they wait for the witch.

A sentinel winnows onto the street before them. “The witch is coming, she’s just crossed the river.” He informs them. “Um, she has amassed a following of younglings.”

Cassian pinches the bridge of his nose. “What?”

A quick check with his spies quickly confirms the guard’s story.

“We have over two dozen guards with her. We’ve tried getting the children away but very few heeded our warnings.” He defends.

Azriel can feel Cassian’s growing irritation. “Younglings are naturally curious and in Velaris they don’t ever believe any threat to be real.” Azriel reminds his brother.

Cassian looks like he wants to argue but seems to remember something and merely shakes his head.

It’s then they hear a commotion from down the street as Moira and her entourage round the corner. The children are all laughing and chasing a trio of colorful smoke dragons up the street as she tells a story.

Azriel has never seen magic like this. He wondered what the witch could be capable of and is dumbfounded to witness for himself.

She looks up and they lock eyes from three houses away and maintain it until she arrives at the foot of the stairs and wraps up her story, “… And thus the horse lord’s widow became the dragon queen.” With her last words, the smoke dragons spin in tight circles before exploding into stars that rain down on the cheering younglings.

“What happens next?"

"Does she use the dragons to conquer the world?"

"Does she make it home?”

Their questions are persistent but the witch doesn’t answer.

“That is enough for today. I have arrived and the stories are now over.” She replies.

“Will you promise to come back and tell us more?” A small fae asks holding the witch’s hand.

“I make no promises, child. Now go.” She looks around at all the children. “It’s been a long day and I’m quite hungry now.”

The younglings all shriek with mock terror and begin running down the street again with the sentries trailing behind them, all but the girl still holding her hand.

The witch looks down at her, “Go on little one, so all these elders can breathe easy again.” Gesturing toward the remaining guards.

The girl just smiles up at the witch. “I’m not like them”. She says almost matter-of-factly. “I’m not scared of you.”

Moira smiles back, “nor should you ever be, little one.”

She finally releases Moira’s hand and takes the hand of the waiting sentinel to lead her away, before she turns and waves her goodbyes to the witch.

Moira doesn’t return the wave but watches her for a moment longer before turning to Azriel, Cassian and Morrigan.

She swallows hard, “I’m sorry I’m late. I hope I haven’t missed my opportunity to meet with your High Lord and Lady.”

Azriel wants to hurl his own slew of questions at her but he keeps quiet and settles for seeing –at face value, at least- she looks whole and unharmed as Morrigan answers. “They are waiting your arrival at the House of Wind.”

She looks confused so Cassian points up the hill toward the House carved into the side of the cliff overlooking the city.

She eyes it curiously as if it’s the first time she’s noticed it, “How do we get there exactly?” She probes.

“We fly in.” Cassian replies as he takes a step down to the street.

Moira’s head whips back to him, eyebrows raised as she takes a half step back. “Can’t we just winnow in?”

“No”. Morrigan interjects. “There are spells against that kind of magic on the House of Wind.”

“Nope, either fly or take the stairs.” Cassian exclaims.

Moira looks between them and the House again before stating, “Inform your High Lord and Lady, I’ll be arriving shortly. I’m taking the stairs.” Before starting up the street.

It’s been a long time since Azriel felt compelled to fight his brother but right now he really wants to punch Cassian in the face.

They watch her disappear up the street before Morrigan speaks. “You’re an idiot.”

Cassian hangs his head and groans before trying to defend himself. “How was I supposed to know she would actually want to take the stairs”?

Morrigan and Azriel only glare disapprovingly at him before Azriel wraps his arms around Morrigan and shoots up into the sky, Cassian following behind a moment later.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**RHYSAND**

Rhysand arrives at Amren’s to find her sitting cross-legged on the floor, a row of books laid out in front of her. A large one open on her lap. She doesn’t look up but motions for him to enter and sit. He reclines on a plush chair nearest her and waits for her to finish whatever she is reading. She had instructed him to keep her informed of Elain’s visions and after her last few, she locked herself up here to explore her own private library. Her archive of books and scrolls were her own, a collection she had been amassing for longer than he had been alive.

“I can smell her in the city. Where will you host her?” Amren asked.

“She is currently making her way to the townhouse where she will be greeted by Azriel, Cassian and Morrigan. They will escort her to the House of Wind.”

Amren looks up at him then. “Ommin, the master of the soldiers you encountered at the Weaver’s is the same demon from Elain’s vision.”

Rhysand froze, didn’t know how or where to begin understanding who this Ommin is. He knew Amren wouldn’t bring it up without proof, without an explanation to her claim.

“Long ago there was a race of Fae called the Jinn, who died out at the time of the Cauldron’s forging. Zealots of the old ways, they continued to worship the Old Gods and their cruel ways devoutly even though they’d been imprisoned and stripped of their power eons before. Ommin descends from this ancient breed. He is an old and powerful sorcerer.” Amren says. She picks up a book from the floor and places it on top of the other one already on her lap. “The Jinn were known for their skills of stealing power and gifts from others. Following the ‘Fall of Lethe’, Ommin used the tragedy and impending ‘Hex Wars’ as they called it, to wreak his own havoc.”

“He killed displaced witches for their gifts?” Rhysand asks.

“Not just witches. He killed wizards, Fae and any magical creature that he stumbled upon in order to take their power. At the end of the Hex Wars, a small coven was able to defeat Ommin. Like the Old Gods his people revered, he was somehow stripped of his power and contained to a solitary northern peak, high in the Vallahan Mountains.” She concluded.

“He’s going to find a way to break free of his imprisonment.” Rhysand muses out loud.

“If he hasn’t already.” Amren adds.

 _Where will he go? What will he do?_ Rhysand wonders.

“Everything that girl has seen has been to our benefit, perhaps it’s a warning of what will come. I believe Ommin has set his eyes to your court, Rhysand. You are the most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian. Feyre was made with the power of all seven High Lords. Her sisters made by the Cauldron itself. If this demon steals magic, it’s no surprise he will want to come here.”

Rhysand growls and his power ripples through the room. He will not allow this creature into his lands. If he had the time now Rhys would find Ommin and mist him before he had a chance to step foot in Prythian. But he has more pressing matters at the moment like the mortal witch that was now making her way to the House of Wind on foot.

“What of the girl?” He demanded of his Second. 

“What do you know of the God-Wife?” She asks.

He wants to roll his eyes, “clearly, not enough.”

“The God-Wife is more than some old mortal folklore. There is a legend told by the wind to those of us who know how to listen. It tells a story of an Ancient One, who came to this world much like I did and took a human for his bride. When they wed he remade her with a gift not of this world. He _made_ her more. Made her  _Other_.”

Rhysand stared into Amren silver eyes and saw no lie. _Elain had said the name whispered to her like an echo. Perhaps she was coming too, perhaps, perhaps she was already here…_ Moira.

Amren nods, seeing the realization on his face. “We must be careful. I believe this girl has come to help your mate’s sisters but proceed with caution, Rhysand. I’m not the only one who has heard this tale. The God-Wife has long been coveted by emperors, kings, lords and sorcerers the world over for her power and for the bounty of her womb.” She closes her books and piles them on the floor with the others before standing. “If this witch is her, you must be careful not to threaten her. Not to provoke what lurks within her or invoke the wrath of her mate.”

Rhysand stands and begins pacing the room. If Moira is this God-Wife, they couldn’t kill her, no matter what she did. His mind raced, so many things to consider now, so many things could go wrong and he had no time. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks back at Amren. _Amren._ She was an Ancient One and she is his Second, his friend, his family. He thinks of the cylinder of ashes, Moira had given him, she deserved a chance to prove herself and explain what it is she wants.

“Anything else?” He asks as he walks to her side and produces his wings.

Amren runs her fingers over her ruby necklace as she peers out of the window. “I am not a witch and your spymaster is not a seer. We have done all we can, let her help them.”

* * *

  **MOIRA**

There are nearly thrice as many steps here than at the Prison but these are all smooth and even. No need to climb hand and foot, and the weather in Velaris is milder than that of the western islands. She is making good time but twice she’s seen the Spymaster fly out over head to check her progress. Her legs burn with every step as do her lungs. She’s always ravenous now and her exhaustion cuts deep as of late, she doesn’t want to think of why, _not now._ Moira tries every dozen steps to winnow but finds whatever spells prevent doing so into the House also applies to its stairs. She’s in the final stretch when again she hears the beating of wings. She nearly rolls her eyes but looks up just in time to see the High Lord Rhysand land ten steps above her, carrying Amren in his arms. He gently places her down and Amren takes a step down, positioning herself between them as she locks eyes with Moira. She doesn’t say anything but sniff the air then narrows her eyes, her hands balling into fists. _She can smell the Prison on me._ Amren turns to Rhysand and they share a silent moment of eye contact before she storms up the stairs without another glance back. Moira doesn’t take her eyes off Amren’s retreating back until the High Lord speaks.

“Welcome back, Moira. I’m glad to see you arrived well.” Rhysand greets.

Moira sinks into a curtsey, “Thank you, High Lord. Please forgive my tardiness, I was delayed.”

“I hope you didn’t run into too much trouble?” He says casually but with a gleam in his eye.

 _Trouble? He must know about what occurred at the Weaver’s._ She takes a step up, shaking her head. “Nothing a clever girl like myself can’t get out of.” She smiles coyly, taking another step. “Tell me, how are Elain and Nesta?”

“They are well. Inside with my mate, Feyre and the rest of my Court. Elain has been anxious to meet you but I can’t say the same for Nesta.” Rhysand replies with a look back up to the House.

Moira cocks an eyebrow and takes another step up. “Your Spymaster told me as much. Don’t fault Nesta’s reluctance to meet with me. Tenacity, High Lord. You will find is a trait among our kind.”

Rhysand laughs. A deep low sound that reverberates off the stone under her feet. “That explains why you insisted on taking the stairs.”

Moira smiles again. “I know many tricks, High Lord but flying has always eluded me. However, like every other mortal in this world, I can fall spectacularly.”

The High Lord laughs again, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You think my Spymaster or General are not up to the task of carrying you here?” He asks.

Moira lays a hand on her chest and replies, “I would never question the strength of an Illyrians wings. Only in his avidity to not drop me.” She smiles and takes the final steps up, closing the distance between them. The very human part of Moira is screaming at her to run back down the stairs as quickly as she can but the witch in her did not allow her to waver. “Your kind”, she says gesturing to his wings, “have always been wary of mine.”

Rhysand looks down at her the mirth in his eyes gone. Moira thinks she has overstepped herself. She’s too close to him, within striking distance. If he moved to grab her or push her, she no longer has a real chance of escaping.

“Thank you” He says in a clear voice. The gratitude on his face tells her what she already knows, he is referring to the ashes.

Moira shakes her head and looks over the city. “You made a reputation for yourself, the Suriel told me what kind of male you really were but still I didn’t return them sooner. I kept them for a long time, Lord Rhysand” She says shamefully.

Rhysand reaches out and gently places a hand on her shoulder. It takes all her self-control not to recoil. “And for a long time, you kept them safe. Thank you, Moira.”

She looks back up at him and swallows the lump in her throat. “You’re welcome”.

“Come.” He says, dropping his hand to his side and turning toward the House and the final flight of stairs. “My mate and her sisters await us inside.”

He doesn’t offer her his arm or anymore small talk as he walks with her side by side.

* * *

  **FEYRE**

Rhysand had opened his mind to her when he landed on the steps ahead of Moira. Allowing Feyre to witness their conversation and everything Amren had told him beforehand. She’s afraid of what they are about to face when Moira tells her story but she’s ready. They owed this much to Moira for the ashes, for Elain and Nesta. Well, mostly Elain.

She had planned to hide her sisters away in the Library until she felt comfortable enough to allow Moira to meet them but Elain had insisted to be present when Moira arrived. Nesta and Lucien protested but both eventually balked. Feyre positioned her sisters on the far side of the room behind her own seat, near the open veranda where Azriel and Cassian stood watch. If anything happened, they could quickly grab them both and fly away.

Amren, Lucien and Mor chose seats nearer but still outside the space where a broken circle of couches surrounded a low center table. On the table Feyre laid out all the books they had collected the previous week as well as a tray of snacks and tea.

When her mate walks in with the witch in tow, Feyre stands as Rhysand strolls to her side while Moira stops at the entrance. She had climbed the ten thousand steps up to the House in record time and she looks surprisingly fresh. Her feet are clean, pulse normal, she isn’t breathless or tired looking, not a bead of sweat on her brow.

Feyre watches Moira as she and her shadows quietly survey the room, its layout and occupants before bowing to her. Rhysand makes the proper introductions before inviting her to sit opposite them.

Moira lingers in place a moment as she looks over toward Azriel, his face unmoving as stone as his own shadows swirl about his wings. Moira turns her attention to her sisters, Nesta looks ready to throw her off the ledge of the veranda while Elain offers her a small but timid smile and hello before Moira moves to the offered seat.

Feyre can hear Moira stomach growl with hunger but the witch ignores the food completely as she rifles through the books. Her face gives away nothing as she learns what they’ve been reading about since her last visit. She took her time with some books, others she skimmed through. When she is done with the final book she places it back on the table and clicks her tongue. “Some of this is inaccurate or exaggerated. All of them only tell part of a story or contain incomplete records.” She says in a jaded tone, folding her hands in her lap.

“Is there anything we are missing? Anything important we should know?” Rhysand asks.

“Yes and no”. She replies, “so much has happened and continues to but very little affects us. What matters now is what we do to protect the innocent in the war to come.”

“War? What war?” Feyre asks, her senses on high alert as her heart sinks. They had just come out of one war how could another already be looming. She can feel Rhysand tense at her side and through the bond.

Moira hesitates to answer as she looks between Feyre and Rhysand, silently considering if the Night Court could be trusted. “The war brewing on the continent." she finally says. "The Mortal courts will soon be in open rebellion against their queens. Even their armies will turn against them soon.” She says with a dangerous flicker in her eyes at the mention of those treacherous queens. “With the wall gone there have been confirmed Fae attacks on human villages along where the border once stood.”

“We have not heard of such reports.” Rhysand admits as he eyes their own shadowsinger. They haven’t heard these rumors, but it doesn’t come as a complete surprise when the Fae courts of the continent had sided with Hybern.

Moira shakes her head. “Very few have. We are trying to keep it quiet as long as we can. Fighting back and evacuating where we can. When word gets out, it will only cause further panic and chaos across the mortal realms.” She says with a ting of sadness. “I was born on the continent, a native daughter of Eastoft.”

Feyre knew that name, Eastoft was a large seaport on the southernmost tip of the continent. _A proud but hard people_ , her father had once called them but he never traded there and she never knew why.

“The last human stronghold.” Lucien says from his seat. “They say no Fae has ever stepped foot in that city, not one of its citizens had ever been captured or enslaved and it boast the most elite army of the mortal realms.”

Moira smiles and nods at Lucien’s words. “My father, Alexander sailed his people south along the coast, desperate to escape the endless fighting and slavers. He founded Eastoft at the end of the world.” Her smile fell, after beat she continued. “I vowed on his death bed to keep his beloved city and its people safe and I have. For generations, my family has fought to keep its people free and will continue to do so.”

Feyre stared at her. Stared at this tiny ancient mortal sitting across from her. Beautiful and older than her own mate. _How? Why?_

She must have seen the questions on her face because Moira says. “Ask me.”

“What magic are you using to maintain your youth?” Feyre finally asked, the words tumble from her mouth too quickly. A scared part of her mortal soul doesn’t want to know this answer. Feyre can feel everyone’s curiosity peak as they all waited for Moira’s response.

Moira shakes her head slowly before answering, “not magic, my immortality was a gift.”

Feyre’s blood is rushing in her ears. _Gift? Could she truly be_ … “From who? Why?”

Moira looks down at her wringing hands. For a moment Feyre thinks she won’t answer, like Moira knows the truth will damn her.

“My husband, Khaaron. I suppose you could have called it a wedding gift.” She finally says.

Feyre tries to swallow but her mouth is dry. _Did she want to know more? Did it matter? This witch had come here to help her sisters. Why did it matter who she was or where she came from or how?_ The thoughts race through her head.

It was Rhysand who asked next what she can’t, what she fears to know. “I’m interested to know what kind of man could give such a gift, Moira. Who is your husband?”

“My husband was not a man.” Moira says, her voice soft as sorrow begins to taint her lovely features. “He was the Bone Carver.”


	6. Chapter 6

**RHYSAND**

As High Lord, Rhysand is furious and wants to throw this witch into the Carver’s old cell. Moira’s existence is an insult to his title and his Court. _How did she get in and out of the Prison all this time without him or his father knowing?_ His anger falters as Rhys remembers the ashes he had just properly thanked her for. _How could he build a better world if he just disposed of her after such kindness?_ Which lead him to a more fatal question. _How wretched Moira’s life must have been after Lethe that a seventeen-year-old chose the aegis of a Death God?_

Rhysand can’t bear to watch as Moira’s face crumbles and when the first tears spill from her he casts his attention to Feyre, who has gone completely still at his side. His mate can’t take her alarmed eyes off the witch as her guilt rushes her. She had made a bargain with the Carver that helped them win the war and now they were learning the cost. Moira’s grief is something Rhysand doesn’t want to imagine but forces himself to face her and allows his guilt to crash over him like a wave.

Moira wipes her damp cheeks with the long-tattered sleeve of her dress and takes a steady breath trying to compose herself. Moira had come to his Court offering council and precious gifts when all they had given her was widowhood.

Rhysand feels the tension from his Court as they wait for him and Feyre to decide how to proceed after such a shock. Amren had been right but they hadn’t thought her Ancient mate to be the Bone Carver. The monster of a thousand faces had a name, _Khaaron_ and for the last millennia had kept a secret bride. The Carver had hidden himself away in the Prison to be forgotten by the world and his siblings, Stryga and Koschei yet a mortal had found and married him. He had made her the God-Wife but the Carver was more than just an Ancient One like his Second. He was an Old God which made Moira _more_.

Question after question pop into his head and he doesn’t know which one to ask first. Each new one seeming more important than the last crucial one. After what felt like minutes he opens his mouth to speak when he hears a footstep behind him.

He turns to see Elain had stood from her seat. Nesta had caught her arm momentarily stopping her from approaching further but Elain silently, almost violently breaks from her sister’s grasp. Without another look towards Nesta’s shocked face or a word from anyone else Elain makes her way to Moira’s side. She picks up a cloth napkin from the untouched snack tray on the table and offers it to the witch. Moira looks as surprised as everyone else and slowly takes the offered handkerchief with whispered thanks, dabbing her cheeks and nose. Elain takes the seat next to Moira and begins pouring a cup of tea, adding two sugars and silently stirring before handing it to the witch. Every clink and scrape of the spoon against the china is obscenely loud in the wake of their stunned silence. Moira looks down at the cup in her hands as it warms her fingers.

“We are sorry for your loss, Moira.” Elain says softly. “I witnessed your husband on the battlefield, he fought bravely. The casualties would’ve been much greater if not for him and the Weaver.”

Moira huffs and lifts the cup to her lips. “When the Gods fight on battlefields, the death toll is always catastrophic”. She takes a sip before placing the cup back on the table and continues, “but the Twins fought for Prythian, I doubt Hybern and their allies share your sentiment.”

“Prythian owes them a great debt.” Rhysand laments.

Moira catches Rhysand's eyes for a moment and all he can see is her resentment at their victory, it’s an effort not to flinch at the pain swimming in the depths of her sapphire eyes and the understanding that they were responsible for it.

Rhysand is relieved Elain had spoken first, realizing that what he’d planned to say would’ve been boorish and turned this conversation into an interrogation.

Elain continues, "It seems greedy to ask more from you when your family has given so much already but I do need help and Nesta too, though she will never admit it.” She looks over toward Nesta, who looks ready to protest her sister’s claim but thankfully stays silent.

“I will stay as long as I can, I will show you how to master your gifts. How to gather and cultivate your power to heal and protect yourself and others, to kill when you must.” Moira reassures Elain, even as she flinches at the word ‘kill’.

Feyre stiffens. “You will not teach my sisters dangerous spells”. 

“I will teach them what they need to know. If they don’t learn to nurture their power, it could turn against them and turn your sisters wicked.” Moira warns.

Feyre scowls. “Fine, but you are not to be alone with my sisters at any time.”

Moira dips her head to Feyre. “Very well, High Lady.”

“What do you mean turn wicked?” Nesta asks. She had silently moved closer toward the center of the room as have Azriel and Cassian.

Moira fiddles with her handkerchief a moment and releases a heavy sigh before answering. “Our kind are usually recognized as children and quickly sent away to live with covens, where we are educated and trained in our craft.”

“I’m not leaving here to live with a coven nor will Elain.” Nesta hisses.

Moira ignores the comment and continues. “Covens are important because our kind thrive off each other’s energy, it helps us focus and hone our strengths. This is vital when we begin our first bleeding because our maturity makes us stronger. If a witch begins her bleeding without training or having been exposed to her kind, they begin to lose their minds. They don’t know what they are or their sudden need for power and blood. Thus, they become wicked, forgetting themselves and those around them. I’ve seen girls murder their whole families, entire villages because they lost all control.”

A chill runs down Rhysand spine at the thought of Elain or Nesta becoming one of these insatiable fiends Moira describes.

He feels Feyre’s panic through the bond and brushes against her mind to comfort her.

"How does that explain Nesta? You said it yourself she is a born witch.” Morrigan demands.

Moira’s face tightens and she doesn’t look at Morrigan, choosing instead to focus on Nesta. “It is rare but it does happen from time to time that a witch does not present at her first bleeding. It just goes to show how extraordinarily tenacious Nesta is.”

Moira gives Nesta a tight smile and Nesta looks ready to knock Moira’s teeth out in return.

Cassian’s leathers groan as he steps closer to Nesta.

Moira looks between his General and Nesta, cocking her head, blinking and letting out a tiny hum. Rhysand senses Moira has just seen what they have all been speculating about for months now.

Then Moira opens her mouth again. “Until Nesta tumbled out of the Cauldron that is.”

Rhysand nearly groans out loud at the taunt. Cassian’s wings flare and Nesta looks ready to breathe fire.

“Now when the wind dares to whisper her name the mountains and oceans tremble with fear.” Moira divulges. “There has never been a witch or seer made with the Cauldron as they were. Nesta and Elain are lucky to have had each other in these first few months, their proximity kept them from sinking into wickedness.”

_Perhaps the Cauldron had made Elain a seer for Nesta’s sake._ Rhysand muses.

“We’ve been just fine all this time.” Nesta proclaims, “Amren and Azriel have been helpful enough to the both of us and now you stumbled across us. You think because you are older than us you know what is best for us but we can decide for ourselves. I don’t need your help and I don’t want you near Elain.”

“You are confusing stubbornness with strength, Nesta. And I warn you, it will not fare well for you or your loved ones.” Moira cautions.

Amren looks ready to echo Moira’s advice.

“Get away from my sisters and get out.” Nesta snarls, taking a step forward.

Rhysand thinks of Amren’s earlier counsel and how quickly this situation is falling apart. Though Nesta would never acknowledge it, Rhysand can smell her fear. Feyre looks to him but seems to be at a loss for a solution as well.

Moira makes no move to leave as she keeps her eyes set on Nesta. Everyone in the room tenses, ready to jump into action if Nesta decides to attack until Elain deliberately rest her hand on Moira’s knee.

Elain’s eyes are wide but her voice is confident as she states. “If Moira leaves I’m going with her.”

Elain stares everyone down as they all gawk at her ultimatum.

“Moira came here at my request. If you can’t trust her out of fear or prejudice, there is nothing she can say to change that.” Elain protest to Rhysand and Feyre before looking at her eldest sister, “If you won’t accept help, so be it but you will not make your choices my own.”

Moira looks at Elain with nothing less than awe and pride.

Rhysand can’t help but mirror the feelings, perhaps Moira’s claim about witches held some merit for this is the most assertive he has ever seen Elain.

Rhysand leans back in his seat as his own tension fades. “Very well but like my mate said you will be watched at all times while with her sisters. So, enlighten us, what will your first lesson with Elain be?”

Moira looks annoyed at being given a directive. “You’ve been having visions?” She asks Elain. “What have you seen?”

Elain nods. “I’ve seen you.” She says, looking back at Moira. “When I was in the Cauldron, the darkness was endless and I felt my body being torn apart and remade. I felt when the Cauldron gave me something but all I wanted was death. I didn’t want to be changed, I wanted to die if only so Nesta wouldn’t endure the pain I felt in those moments and deter the Queens from getting what they wanted.”

Elain’s voice brakes and she takes a moment to gather herself. Feyre is crying, a hand over her mouth to keep from weeping out loud. Azriel has gone completely still and Nesta pale, her eyes shiny. Rhysand understands then they are all learning about this for the first time. Elain never told anyone what she saw or felt when she was forced into the Cauldron by Hybern. She simply became a ghost, shutting down as she tried to understand what had happened to her, what she had lost and what to make of all the visions that hounded her mind afterward.

“I remember closing my eyes and praying to the Mother for mercy to end my suffering and when I opened them again I saw beyond the murky blackness, I saw a girl.” Rhysand stopped breathing. “I saw you, Moira”, Elain reveals. “You smiled at me and your smile was not cruel or mocking but warm and understanding. Your eyes spoke to me and I heard your words in my soul, they said _‘It’s alright. It’s almost over. You will survive this. Find me’_. Then you stretched your hand out to me and I fought against the despair that was drowning me, I reached for your hand it was small and warm, your grip firm. Then you pulled me out of the darkness, out of the Cauldron.”

Everyone’s mouths are open in shock.

Elain and Moira hold each other’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell us, Elain? Why didn’t you say something before?” Nesta asks gravelly.

Elain doesn’t look away from Moira as she answers. “Because I didn’t know how to explain what I saw, I didn’t understand that I was now a seer. But I did know one thing, I understood it with every fiber of my being.” Elain swallows and licks her lips. “I knew that girl in the Cauldron was real and I knew if I called she would come. So, when no one was hovering over me, I did. I would call out into the void of the world and I receive silence in return but the quiet did not discourage me, I continued calling. Then the war happened and my father was killed.” She stops again for a breath, her voice softer than ever. “When the fighting was over I felt the darkness return, trying to drag me under again. Until one day when the void whispered back to me, ‘God-Wife’ and I saw you again reaching for me, I knew then who that girl was. And those old tales we were told as children were more than just stories told to us to inspire values of love, fear, obedience, courage and _hope_.”

“They’re legends crafted from forgotten truths.” Moira utters as she reaches for Elain’s hand that is still resting on her knee and cups it in both of hers, her eyes sparkle with marvel. “What more have you seen, Elain? Tell me everything”.

* * *

  **FEYRE**

Feyre sat in silence, unable to speak after what Elain had revealed. She listened as her sister retold all her visions to Moira plus others she had kept to herself. Moira had asked her and Elain opened up in ways she thought her sister never would again, like when she was a mortal on their father’s estate. Always cheerful, lovely Elain, who could make anyone fall half in love with her with a smile. Elain was smiling again now as she spoke with Moira. She was so at ease with the witch that Feyre wondered if what Moira said about witches needing to be near one another was true. _Perhaps Elain should live with a coven_. Feyre’s mind raced as she bore witness to how horribly she had failed Elain.

She felt Rhysand slip into her mind. “ _You are not a failure. We had no way of knowing what haunted Elain until she was ready to share. Do not berate yourself, Feyre darling_.”

Feyre took a breath trying to calm her mind. Her mate was right to an extent, she had been in the Spring Court in those first weeks after Hybern. When Feyre returned to her sisters, Elain was no more than a shell of who she once was. Nesta wouldn’t let anyone near her and Azriel could only do so much. With the war raging about them, they wouldn’t learn that she had been made a seer for several more weeks.

Nesta had confessed her inability to use a bathtub but Feyre had never asked Elain what troubled her apart from her broken betrothal and lost status in the mortal realm.

Nesta had taken the empty chair at Feyre’s side, closest to Elain. She could see the guilt in her eyes as their sister calmly confessed all her demons to a stranger.

When Elain spoke of the creature they now knew to be Ommin, Moira showed no sign of surprise. Perhaps she knew of his re-emergence and his growing influence is what drove Moira to cast her own spells on Velaris.

Elain spoke of their father’s murder at the hands of the King of Hybern and of her and Nesta’s revenge. Finally, when Elain recounts everything that transpired between her and Graysen that Moira seems to notice her sister’s iron ring.

Moira lifts Elain’s ringed hand closer to herself. She can barely hide her grimace as her eyes flicker between the ring to Elain’s face. It seems the witch found the ring to be as hideous as the rest of them did.

“This Graysen is a fool.” Moira says releasing Elain's hand. “A fool with poor taste in jewelry.”

Cassian, Lucien and Rhysand release short huffs of amusement as Elain pouts at the insult aimed at her ring and former fiancé. Feyre, Azriel and Nesta glare at the males effectively silencing them.

“Lesson One: Sorrow is insight. The pain will always remain to remind you not to repeat your mistakes but with time it will fade into a duller ache.” Moira says.

“But I didn’t make a mistake.” Elain cries. “I never wanted to be made Fae or a seer. I wanted to travel the world with my father and marry a Lord’s son, to have babies and grow old.” Elain’s voice grows higher with each word as tears roll down her cheeks. “What mistake did I make?”

Feyre wants to slap Moira for making Elain cry. She looks over at Nesta, who is closer to that limit than herself.

“The eddies of the Cauldron swirl in strange ways, Elain. Sometimes the errors that plague us the worst are not of our own making.” Moira says regretfully.

Oh, this witch was most definitely the Bone Carver’s wife. Even though Feyre felt a great deal of shame at making her a widow, she was already done with her esoteric way of speaking.

“I know it’s hard, Elain but once you let go of the past and your old ambitions the buzzing in your head will stop.” Moira says.

Elain's sobbing ceases as her attention shot back to Moira. Shock clear on her tear-stained face as she slowly begins to shake her head.

“What buzzing?” Lucien asks.

Elain’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she fails to find her voice, her eyes impossibly large. “How- how do you know about that?” She asks Moira.

“As a seer, your gift resides in the future, to better refine your talents you mustn’t dwell in the past. That noise you hear is your own power cautioning you to stay away from those bygone thoughts.” Moira explains. “If you don’t heed its warning and you allow that buzzing to become normal you will lose your seer-sight and eventually your mind.”

“I can’t.” Elain rasps. “I’m can’t make it stop, I’m not strong like my sisters.”

Moira huffs. “That’s not true at all. You saw me coming, that alone shows how powerful you really are.”

“How so?” Rhysand asks. “Why wouldn’t she see you coming?”

“My husban-” The word doesn’t fully form as Moira remembers that he no longer exists. Feyre’s chest tightens at the flash of pain in Moira’s eyes before she remembers herself and continues. “When I became a God-Wife the first thing I learned was to conceal myself from everyone, from all magic. Yet Elain saw me.” She sets her eyes on Elain again. “You may just be the most powerful seer in existence.”

Elain looks pale. “I thought you were _the_ God-Wife?” She whispers.

Moira shakes her head. “No, I was just the only one.” She clarifies.

“Have there-” Rhysand begins but Moira cuts him off.

“My past is irrelevant to Elain and Nesta’s training.” Moira reproaches. “Khaaron is dead, I’m not sure what I am anymore nor do I want to discuss it with you.”

Rhysand’s nostrils flare and Feyre feels his irritation through the bond at Moira’s insolence. She didn’t seem to care about the thin line she was walking with them because she knew she was their only real option to help her sisters.

“Than get on with Lesson Two.” Feyre commands.

Moira’s face hardens a moment before she reaches down to her side and from the folds of her skirts produces a large cylinder. She uncorks it and begins to tip it over the surface of a large closed book on the table. For a moment Feyre thinks she is about to see some poor soul’s ashes but instead is greeted by the sound of rocks rolling about inside the tube. Feyre’s breath hitches when instead of stones, one-by-one eleven beautiful crystals tumble out.


	7. Chapter 7

**LONAN**

Ever since the foreign delegates began arriving in Eastoft, Lonan took great effort not to leave his rooms unless absolutely necessary. After the first day, he quickly became tired of strangers approaching him with congratulations or condolences, sometimes both. The war had taken its toll on Lonan and his pain was still too raw to celebrate the victory over Hybern.

The castle was teeming with more people and activity than he had ever known, the kitchen fires burned around the clock, servants scurried up and down the corridors with laundry, bedding and food trays. Soldiers, Eastofti and foreign alike lined every hallway, stood watch at every door and patrolled the grounds day and night. Lonan was vaguely concerned by the fourth day of arrivals that they wouldn’t have enough space in old Heorot to accommodate all the envoys and their entourages but they made due.

Lonan had spent his youth travelling overseas with his father, Marcus. He knew of the grandeur of other kingdoms and their courts, so it surprised him that no one remarked on Eastoft’s lack of opulence. The Eastofti were a stark people, here on the southern-most tip of the Continent everyone lived a simpler kind of life, his father used to tell him. There was no need for marble floors or golden chandeliers, not when all a true Southerner needed was good fighting steel and a warm bed. Lonan and his family- although descended from royalty- were no different.

When Eastoft was still a nameless settlement at the end of the world, Heorot was no more than a simple stone hall built on a hill, used to hold court. Where it could overlook the village and sea. Its vaulted ceiling and massive balcony doors on three sides with an enormous fireplace at its rear. On the dais before the hearth sat the Obsidian Throne, the seat of the Southern King. Not much has changed within the throne room itself since the two-thousand-pound slab of uncut volcanic rock was placed on the podium but over the centuries as Eastoft grew, so did Heorot. Stones were added to the hall and it became a fort and was aptly named, after the first Hybern-Prythian War when slavery ended and the wall was built Eastoft boomed into a thriving port and more stones were added. Levels, bed chambers and verandas were constructed until Heorot became a proper castle with servants’ quarters, stables, training yards and flower gardens. Despite all its growth, Heorot like Eastoft remained modest with its limestone walls, simple tapestries and ash-wood doors and rafters. True Southerners never forgot their poor beginnings as descendants of runaway Black Land slaves that dreamt of a better life, a free life.

Lonan perched on the railing of his third-floor balcony, taking a bite from a tart green apple. The cool sea breeze whipped his long black hair about his face as he watched his youngest cousins splashing in the garden fountain below, their carefree laughter echoing off the stone walls. In the room behind him, he listened to Virago bicker with Yomas and the new dressmaker about how to best alter her wardrobe. His sister was not a woman to be coddled but after losing her left arm just below the elbow to the Fae King, she needed assistance readjusting to life without her shield-arm. Whether Virago would ever admit to needing help or willing accept it was a different story, his sister always seemed on the verge of ordering everyone out of her sight whenever someone began to fuss over her.

Lonan took another bite of apple, its juice spilt down his chin and he wiped it with the back of his hand as he looked out to the sea. Its crashing waves shimmering like diamonds and blurred his sight, making his eyes water as he thought about the better life he could create from the ashes of what remained of his family and his people.

The war had taken his father, making Lonan the new Warden of Eastoft and his onyx eyes marked him as an heir of Alexis like his father before him. Making Lonan now first in line to the Obsidian Throne. Lonan had been tutored in the history of his Bloodfyre lineage and its responsibility to the Eastofti. He always knew he could one day be king but he never put thought into the idea because he never thought the day would come. Now the day was slowly approaching and Lonan wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted his father back, his uncle Ezra and the eight other cousins who died fighting against Hybern’s armies.

Lonan was pulled from his reserve by the uproar coming from the courtyard below, he blinked away his tears and looked down to see the gates opening and mounted riders entering the grounds. It took him a moment to recognize the sigil banner but when he did that’s when he saw him.

“Vi, come quick!” He called to his sister as he stood from his perch. She was at his side in a few heartbeats much to Yomas’s protests and quickly followed his trail of sight.

“It’s really him, isn’t it?” She said.

Yomas moved silently as a cat as he came to stand beside them on the balcony before speaking. “Ah, yes. Jurian, general of Scythia. Queen Vassa named him her top advisor in her absence much to her family’s disapproval. Every decision made in Scythia must be approved by Jurian, it seems he takes his position in her court very serious and is surprisingly very good at it.”

Yomas was his father’s cousin but unlike Marcus and Ezra who had been all muscles and brute strength. Yomas had been a bookish boy with skinny arms and a light step, a better reader than swordsman and was made Steward of Heorot once his schooling was completed. He kept all records of trades, taxes and travelers, and was bookkeeper for Heorot and historian for the Bloodfyre family. Making Lonan’s life exceptionally easier by keeping track of every relative and their business and personal affairs. Lonan believed that all great empires would fall into ruin if not for scholarly men like Yomas or his ginger-haired apprentice and Lonan’s second cousin, Geoffrey.

“I think it prudent.” Yomas continued. “To invite Jurian to a private audience, before or after the gathering tomorrow.”

Lonan hooked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and nodded vaguely as he stared down at the old warrior. They weren’t the only ones who looked on in awe, it seemed everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were doing to watch in stunned silence as Jurian dismounted from his horse and strode inside without a word.

“Any word from Beric?” Lonan finally asked Yomas after Jurian had vanished inside Heorot and the hush had subsided.

“King Beric will be arriving tomorrow, in time for the gathering but there may not be time for you to meet with him beforehand.” Yomas replied, his brown eyes scanning over the ledger in his hands.

Lonan took a deep breath and looked back out toward the sea. He had hoped Beric would arrive sooner but when they received word that the king had not been in Trophonia for weeks, Lonan had known there could be a possibility Beric wouldn’t make it to this gathering at all and Lonan had no time to go to him, even if he knew exactly where to find Beric.

Virago gave Lonan a light pat on the back before asking Yomas. “Any news from Mychael?”

Yomas brought a finger up to his lips and motioned for them to follow him back inside. He dismissed the dressmaker as Lonan shut the balcony doors behind them. Only when the sound of footsteps faded down the hall did Yomas answer. “Hybern.”

A chill ran down Lonan’s spine as he and Virago quickly closed the distance between themselves and Yomas before he continued in a hushed tone. “He found Haakon in Hybern, Mychael has been there with him for a fortnight.”

Lonan’s heart hammered so hard against his chest he wondered if Virago and Yomas could hear it. “Why haven’t they returned?” He demanded.

Yomas grimaced as if he wished he didn’t have the answer. “Haakon went for revenge, for blood. Laeth reported that there’s only carrion and vultures left on the island, Hybern is gone. Haakon refuses to leave, Mychael has managed to keep him from crossing into the Fae courts of Prythian.”

Virago swore and Lonan began pacing as he ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s going to get us all killed if he keeps attacking the Fae.” Lonan said.

There was a long moment of silence between them all before Yomas spoke again. “Perhaps not.”

Lonan and Virago both turned to look at Yomas as if he had grown a second head. He took a cautious step forward before speaking again. “Keeping Haakon away from Prythian is paramount but if what Laeth said is true, we could use the destruction of Hybern against the Prythian High Lords.”

“How?” Virago asked. “And when did Laeth get involved?”

Yomas smirked and shrugged. “An Eastofti prince destroyed the enemy at Prythian’s back. We need only to focus on the northern threats from Montesere, Rask, Vallahan and possibly Xian.” Yomas explained. “So long as Haakon stays out of Prythian, they will owe us a debt.”

“Once those northern Fae courts find out about Hybern’s ruin, their attacks on the Mortal realms will increase tenfold.” Virago argued. “We may not have enough time to play this card against Prythian.”

“How will this work if Haakon is blood drunk and refuses to return to Eastoft?” Lonan said, even if he liked the idea of having the Prythian High Lords in his favor. “Haakon disappeared after the war and his mother never arrived.”

“Ah.” Yomas proclaimed. “There is news on her too."

Lonan’s heart fell into his stomach like a stone. _Where has she been?_

“When word spread about the Old Gods participation in the war, Beric sent Laeth and his sister to find Moira and bring her home.”

Lonan held his breath and locked his knees.

“Zehra made contact with her a week ago but has yet to speak with her in depth. She is the guest of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court in Velaris.” Yomas revealed. “It seems Moira is tutoring the two eldest daughters of the Prince of Merchants.”

Lonan’s thoughts drifted to the three battered ships anchored in the harbor as he took a steadying breath.

“When the King of Hybern used the Cauldron to turn the Archeron girls to Fae, they also presented.” Yomas explained further. “That is all Zehra knows so far. The Night Court keeps a shadowsinger so she keeps her distance but has observed that Moira is being treated well and is behaving herself.”

“We need to get Moira and Haakon back here now.” Lonan proclaimed. It wasn’t just because they were both deep in Fae territory and could at any moment cause a confrontation with their volatile tempers but because Moira could help him greatly with everything that was unfolding around them. She had great influence in many Courts and with the Great Witches Coven and clans. He needed her guidance and council in these dark times. “Moira can easily get Haakon in line, so we need to focus on her first. How do we get Moira back without endangering her or Zehra?” Lonan asked after a moment of contemplation.

Yomas smirked and without hesitation answered, “Jurian”.

 +

Yomas had spent the last few days preparing the great hall for the gathering, a formal meeting between all the heads of the Mortal empires across the Continent and beyond. The growing unrest in the Mortal lands was getting worse since the wall fell and the Queens betrayal and now the Fae were growing bolder, ranging further south and raiding Mortal settlements near their borders.

There hadn’t been a gathering like this in over five hundred years since the early days on the first Hybern-Prythian War and Lonan never imagined there would be another like it again, let alone in his lifetime. The Throne Room was fitted with five long tables and pews. One table laying along the base of the dais before the Obsidian Throne where the Eastofti Court would sit. The other four were positioned along the length of the hall, one table each for the visiting delegates and royals from Trophonia, Dodoñia and Gaumāta. The fourth table was designated for the emissaries from the Courts of the Mortal Queens.

Lonan sat on the top step of the dais, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked out across the empty hall. The fireplace had been lit for the first time in years and it burnt so hot, Lonan was beginning to sweat through his wool tunic when a door creaked open across the hall and Jurian stepped in. He walked quickly across the room, his boots echoing off the stone floor with each step. Lonan stood and took a step down when Jurian came to stand before him, bowing and greeting him with Lonan’s new title of Lord Steward. When the formalities and pleasantries were done, Lonan invited Jurian to sit with him on the steps and talk.

Yomas had told Lonan what to say, what questions to ask and what topics not to bring up when talking with Jurian, but now that he was here Lonan couldn’t stop himself.

“What is it like to be here, to be alive again?” Lonan blurted out. The look Jurian made as he methodically rubbed invisible dirt from his hands made Lonan wish he could take back his words and for a moment he wondered if he should apologize too.

“You know, you’re the first person to ask me that question directly.” Jurian replied casually after a moment. “Everyone talks about my return after I leave a room but no one ever asks.”

Lonan only swallowed the dryness in his throat and waited to see if he would be the first to get an answer.

“I asked Moira Bloodfyre a similar question once.” Jurian said, smiling lopsidedly as if he were remembering the moment. “She didn’t answer right away; her eyes grew distant and she was very quiet for a long time. I apologized and tried changing the subject of conversation but eventually she did answer.”

Yomas had read King Ciarán’s old war journals and had shown Lonan one in particular. In the early years of the first war before the wall the old king had written of Moira’s arrival at his war camp. The Black Land Fae had used fire magic in an attack that left an entire battalion burned. Moira had come at his request because of her experience with that sort of magic and she was a gifted healer. She placed spells around Ciarán’s camp against the Fae fire and mended all his wounded soldiers. One of those burnt men had been Jurian. He had been young, not even a general at the time. The old king noted that not long after Jurian’s recovery, he began sneaking into Moira’s tent every night and slipping back out before dawn and continued to do so until she left the camp.

Lonan angled his body toward Jurian, giving him his full attention.

“She said she felt as if her mind was stretched too thin, she was afraid it would one day snap and she would go mad.” Jurian said, shaking his head. “Moira was right, she’s always right.”

When Lonan was born, Moira was the one who pulled him from his mother and into the world. She had stayed at his mother’s side as she recovered from his difficult delivery, his father told him- years later once Lonan was a man grown- that Moira was the only reason he and his mother had survived the labor.

Lonan grew up listening to stories about his many times over grandmother. The only daughter born of King Alexander, who was raised in the witch colony of Lethe and about the eldritch demon God she married and fathered her sons.

Lonan had been young and foolish enough once to envy Moira’s immortality and magic but now as he watched the shadows grow darker in Jurian’s eyes, Lonan pitied them both.

“The secret is remembering, she told me, not forgetting. Remember all your joys and loves and keep those memories alive in here.” Jurian continued, tapping two fingers to his chest. “To keep your heart from growing cold. Still, it was hard knowing everyone she met and knew and loved would die, their faces and the sound of their laughter forgotten by the world.” Jurian’s eyes grew distant for a moment, “I never thought I would understand what she meant when she had told me this that night by the fire. I never-”. Jurian trailed off with a loud sigh and shook his head before rubbing his eyes with his right thumb and forefinger.

Lonan didn’t know what to say, how to move on from this so he stayed silent and hoped Jurian would speak again and not leave.

“Where is she, Lonan. Where is Moira?” Jurian finally asked almost coolly but his face gave away his true feelings. Jurian had been asking the servants and guards after Moira since arriving at Heorot.

Lonan stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. “She is why I have called on you this evening. I’m told you know the Fae of Prythian well, that you are on good terms with Rhysand and Feyre of the Night Court.”

Jurian’s brows creased and he turned to look directly at Lonan for the first time since he arrived. “You’re going to have to be more specific?”

“It’s said Feyre Archeron is leading the efforts to remake the treaty and wall. I want you to help me arrange a meeting with her.” Lonan replied.

The color drained from Jurian’s face a little. “Please don’t tell me you sent Moira to treat with the Fae.”

“I didn’t send her to do anything.” Lonan answered defensively. “She’s with Feyre’s sisters, apparently the Cauldron made them witches as well as Fae. Moira took it upon herself to initiate them.”

Jurian sat silently, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “There was a meeting with the Prythian Fae courts and the Mortal land courts after the war was won. There’s to be another in a few weeks. I can get your court a seat at that meeting.”

“You’ll need to secure seats for the king of Dodoñia, the king of Trophonia and the Gaumāta princes as well. I’m sure this lot of emissaries will want to attend as well.” Lonan said, gesturing toward the empty tables.

Jurian looked out at the hall then back toward the throne behind them, its smooth black surface glowing red and orange from the reflected firelight. “You know why they called this meeting, Lonan. The Queens’ courts are deposed, their reigns are over.”

Lonan could taste bile in his throat. “There is still Queen Vassa.” Lonan countered. He knew he probably sounded desperate but he didn’t care.

Jurian shook his head. “Vassa is beyond our reach until we can find a way to free her from the sorcerer-lord’s control and she too, wants what’s best for her people. In the old days the people of the Continent turned south for guidance in times of great hardship, for a leader to unite them under one banner, for a king to give them courage and hope.”

Lonan stared down at his boots, his hands resting on his thighs. He wanted to curl in on himself and disappear, the taste of bile was now in his mouth. “My father should be here. He would’ve been a great king.” Lonan said, his voice thin.

“You will be a great king, Lonan.” Jurian said so boldly that Lonan wanted to believe him.

They sat in silence for a while before Jurian finally got to his feet and stretched. “You look just like him.”

Lonan felt faraway again like he did after returning from the war, his head was filled with the sounds of clashing swords and the cries of dying men. It took him a bit to realize Jurian had said something. “What?”

“Has anyone ever told you, you look just like him.” Jurian repeated.

Lonan looked up at Jurian, who was looking back at him as if he were a ghost. “Who?”

“King Ciarán.” He said over his shoulder as he turned and walked away. “You look just like him.”

Lonan just blinked at Jurian’s retreating back. The general had lived in the time of the last Eastofti king, Jurian may have even known him. Lonan had never been compared to King Ciarán, but Ciarán had been likened to King Alexis.

Lonan was seven years old when Moira was returning to Eastoft after a long absence, it was the first time he would meet her since he was a babe-in-arms. They received her properly in the throne room, his father had ordered him, Virago and his cousins to dress in their best and made to wait at the bottom of the dais alongside the rest of the court. He hated the itchy cobalt tunic they made him wear.

He had only known that Moira was a witch and was older than she looked, Lonan had a thousand ideas about the woman he was about to meet that rainy afternoon but Moira was beyond his imagination. He hadn’t expected the freckled faced girl that dashed into the hall from the rain with bare feet and raven black hair that brushed her waist.

He had almost asked out loud who she was when all the elders began to bow and curtsy, he couldn’t believe it even as his father stepped forward and hugged her.

When she finally turned to look at him, Lonan found himself spellbound by her ocean blue eyes and couldn’t look away even as a small voice in his head told him to _run_.

She had approached him warily and sank down to her knees before him, cupping his face in her warm hands and smiled. Lonan had thought her smile made her look lovely and even younger but also very sad.

Moira kissed him on both cheeks, she smelt of rain and sage and had told him, _“You look just like my Alexis.”_

Jurian was nearly to the doors when Lonan finally stood and called out to him. If he was expected to wear a crown, if he was destined to be king than he would start acting like one. He strode across the hall and for a moment he thought he smelled sage. “After the gathering tomorrow, I want you to sail to Prythian immediately and secure invitation to the meeting with Feyre Archeron for all the mortal courts. I need you to deliver a sealed letter to Moira and don’t leave the Night Court without her.” He ordered Jurian.

Jurian arched a brow but bowed all the same and said, “now you sound like him.”

+

Since returning from the war, Lonan struggled with sleep every night. In the quiet of his bedchamber he heard his father’s war cry and when he closed his eyes he saw the firebird queen soaring across the coastline, ships burning in her wake. His dreams took him back to the day they returned to Eastoft from Prythian, to the huge funeral pyres on the beach. He had lit his father’s fire himself and Mychael had lit Ezra’s. They watched them burn all night while drinking themselves half to death in silent rage.

The night before the gathering was no different, only this time the funeral pyre he climbs onto with a torch was not Marcus’s but his own. He didn’t recognize his corpse at first, his flesh was battered and bruised and his blood caked hair obscured his face.

Lonan’s eyes burn and he wants to grieve for himself. A woman’s weeping comes from the sky above him but when Lonan looks up the sun blinds him and he can only glimpse a flash of sun kissed skin, ash blonde hair and a burgundy cloak.

He wants to comfort his mourner, wants to reassure her that he is not dead but he can’t form the words because he isn’t certain anymore.

Lonan looks back down at his mangled corpse, at the crown on his head and lights the pyre.

+

The morning of the meeting came and Lonan was up before the sun. He dressed and went to the stables to brush his horse, to give him something to do since sleep eluded him. Eventually, Yomas found him and returned him to his rooms to ready as the delegates and emissaries began to make their way to the throne room.

Virago was waiting in his sitting room nursing a cup of wine by the fireplace, she looked like a warrior queen in her embroidered black dress with an asymmetrical neckline. The left sleeve of her gown had been cut and stitched up at the end of her stump. Virago’s honey brown hair was braided back into an intricate plait and her dark brown eyes were lined with kohl.

Lonan bathed and dressed in a simple black tunic and pants before pouring himself a cup of wine. He downed it in one swig and began pacing the room, his sister ignored his fretting as she poured herself another cup.

Yomas would come to fetch them soon and Lonan wasn’t ready to be king.

When the clock above the mantle rang at noon, he went into the bathroom and hurled his guts out into the toilet.

Lonan splashed water on his face at the basin and was checking his haggard reflection when he heard the front doors to his rooms open and multiple sets of boots scuff against the stone floors into his sitting room.

Virago let out a cry, not of fear or pain but relief and Lonan’s chest tightened at the sound and what it meant.

Beric had arrived.

Lonan was in the main room in seconds. Yomas, Etain- his mercenary cousin- and Beric’s brother and general Gendry stood watch by the closed doors. In the center of the room stood Beric hugging Virago to his chest as she wept into his gray tunic, the fingers of her right hand clutched at the black wolf skin cloak that hung over Beric’s left shoulder. He kissed her temple and whispered reassurances into her hair as he rocked her side-to-side in his arms.

King Beric and his father had been friends since boyhood and when they came into their title as men, they forged a strong alliance between Eastoft and Trophonia that helped their people flourish.

Lonan had known the king his whole life and loved him like an uncle as he had Ezra.

Virago eventually detached herself from Beric and wiped away the tears and kohl running down her cheeks with the back of her hand, Beric gave her a sad smile before turning to face Lonan.

His face was chapped, his ginger-red hair windblown and his beard and clothes were unkempt as if he had come straight here from his ship. Lonan was grateful for it and as his first tears escaped his eyes, Beric closed the distance between them and enveloped Lonan in a tight hug that knocked the breath from his lungs.

They held each other for minutes, no one spoke as Lonan tried and failed to keep from crying out loud. When Lonan finally pulled away, he quickly wiped his face and cleared his throat. “I’m happy you made it.” He managed to croak out.

“Marcus and Ezra were with me when I became king, it’s only right I return the favor.” Beric replied sadly. “I know all too well how you feel right now, Lonan. You are not ready for the weight of a crown and all it entails.” Lonan shook his head and his stomach turned. “Ay, neither was I and I was younger than you are now but I became king all the same and with time I learned and Trophonia thrived.” Beric said, his soothing voice had become gruff with age but still had its calming quality about it.

“Only a true Eastofti king can unite the Continent like the days of old.” Beric said as he took hold of Lonan’s shoulders. “It’s time again for a Southern King. War is coming again, Lonan make no mistake about it, things will only get worse even after the new wall is built. Peace takes longer to build than walls.”

“My father...” Lonan began before his voice cracked.

“Your father loved you.” Beric cut in. “Marcus was my friend and I loved him like a brother. I know your pain, Lonan and I’m sorry you and Virago must endure it now but time waits for no man. There’s a storm stirring in the north and it will not stop coming.” Beric released Lonan’s shoulders and took a step back, his hands dropping to his sides but his sharp emerald eyes never left Lonan’s face.

Lonan ran his hands through his wet hair, his fingers catching in the knots as he looked out of the open balcony doors towards the sea. The waters were a deep blue and the skies in the horizon were calm. There was a storm coming, it was not yet visible but Lonan could feel its approach in his bones and if they didn’t stand and fight it together, it would wipe out all mankind.

Lonan closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath before facing Beric again.

“It’s time.” Yomas said softly from his place against the wall. Everyone turned to look at him as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Etain, Gendry and Virago followed after a moment. Leaving Lonan and Beric alone with only the crackling fire.

“Zarina sends her love.” Beric whispered once they were alone.

Lonan’s chest tighten at his words. A vision of amethyst colored eyes and soft tanned skin dashes across his mind as he nods distantly.

“How is your lady-wife?” Lonan asked, his voice low.

Beric smiled sadly and nodded. “Well.” He answered. “Cross she missed out on fighting in another war but she is well.”

Lonan’s smiled broadly and even laughed a little. It was the first time he had done so since going off to war.

Beric looked back toward the open door and their waiting entourage. “I sent Laeth to deliver news about Moira to her.” He said, his voice lower than before.

Lonan looked to the hallway before stepping closer to Beric. “I’m sending Jurian to the Night Court after the gathering to retrieve Moira and Zehra. He will speak in our favor to Feyre Archeron about the treaty and wall.”

Beric closed his eyes and let out a long breath before saying teasingly. “Hopefully Jurian arrives before Moira picks a fight and starts another war.”

“The Mother protect us all if she does.” Lonan replied with a sigh.

He knew it was a joke. He knew despite how mercurial Moira could be, she would never do anything rash that would endanger Eastoft.

Beric gave him one last pat on the shoulder before walking out into the hallway with the others.

Lonan walked over to his balcony and his chest tightened as he looked out towards the bay, to the three ships named after three daughters. The Prince of Merchants had failed them time and time again but, in the end, risked everything to save them one last time.

Feyre was nineteen when she went north of the wall with the Fae lord to repay a life debt. Moira was fifteen when she escaped the wizard’s dungeon and seventeen when she entered the Prison. They had been nearly a decade younger than Lonan was now and neither woman had been ready to suffer their burdens but did all the same for the love of their family.

Lonan could bare the weight of his crown with all the grace he possessed and he would gladly die a hundred times over for his family and his people. Lonan looked around his empty room and he could sense the ghosts of the old kings around him but they did not scare him.

A gust of wind blew into the room and it filled Lonan’s lungs with the smell of the sea and sage, it gave him courage.

Eastoft had never fallen and he would be damned if it did on his watch.


	8. Chapter 8

**MOIRA**

“Are those beryllus stones?” asked Amren, after Elain and Nesta had picked a stone each for themselves from Moira’s collection.

“Yes.” Moira replied as she put away the remaining nine pieces.

“What are they?” Elain asked. She had chosen a yellow-gold stone, no bigger than one of her own fingers. Elain watched in awe as the light within the crystal caught on its broken facets. The flickers casting a soft golden glow across Elain’s lovely face.

“Precious stones. Ancient artifacts used to channel our gifts and hone more power to ourselves. Our people have used beryllus stones since before the Cauldron.” Moira answered.

Elain and Nesta both turned away from their stones to look at Moira. A delicate expression of surprise and confusion on their faces. Moira looked at the others in the room and found they all shared the same look. She realized they weren’t yet accustomed to the idea that Elain and Nesta were like her.

“I will teach you the spells needed to use the beryllus stones to your full potential.” Moira assured Elain and Nesta.

“How long will you stay with my sisters?” Feyre asked from her place next to the High Lord.

Moira shrugged sheepishly. She genuinely didn’t have an answer. “I do not know, High Lady. But it will not be long before my people come looking for me.” Moira looked out toward the veranda, to the sprawling city beyond. A large raven flew in wide circles in the distance. Moira knew she didn’t have long here.

“So, what is the lesson here then?” Nesta asked, breaking through Moira’s musing.

Moira turned her attention back to Nesta. “The stones are my gift to you and your sister. The lesson is to never surrender your stone, even under pain of death. Unless you have a replacement tool, never submit your stone to anyone for any reason.”

Nesta looked back to her ruby-red beryllus stone. The largest in Moira’s collection, it fit perfectly into Nesta’s palm. The stone reminded Moira of the Illyrian Syphons worn by the male standing guard behind Nesta.

“Spend the rest of the day with your stone.” Moira instructed Elain and Nesta. “Become accustomed to it in your hands, learn its weight in your pockets. Sleep with it on your person tonight, it will help against night terrors.”

Elain and Nesta shot each other a knowing glance before turning back down to the stone in their hands. Their shared look of hopefulness was enough to confirm to Moira that the sisters had indeed been suffering from nightmares.

“What will you do for the rest of the day?” Feyre asked.

“Find a place to lie my head. I am tired.” Moira replied.

“I’m sure you are. It must've taken a lot out of you to burn the Weaver’s cottage to the ground.” Prompted the general.

Moira would not have any of his arrogance and glared up at him. “Bryaxis sends his regards, General. He can’t wait to have a chat with you.”

The Illyrian blanched.

“He said he’s grown tired of you running away from him every time you two meet.” She spat back at him with the tiniest smile playing on her lips.

“Right.” Rhysand said firmly, “and would you happen to know where my eldritch librarian is at the moment?”

“Likely where I last parted with him. Roaming the forest around Under the Mountain. Enjoying is momentary freedom.” Moira answered.

“He was supposed to return after the war was over.” Feyre explained.

“You were supposed to install him a window. Bryaxis will not return until your half of the bargain is complete.” Moira reminded the High Lady.

Feyre and Rhysand glared at Moira but she couldn’t bring herself to care at her rudeness.

“We will accommodate you here at the House of Wind during your stay.” Feyre announced. “I can show you to a room now if you like to rest.”

“Thank you, High Lady.” Moira said with a bow of her head. “High Lord.”

Feyre began to stand and Moira followed suit. She stuffed her handkerchief up her sleeve as she turned and looked back to Elain. “If you need me for anything, don’t hesitate to call on me.” Moira instructed Elain and Nesta. “I’m here at your disposal.” She glances over at Nesta, who gave her a slight nod in response.

“Thank you.” Elain replied.

Moira gave her a small smile.

“This way.” Feyre said as she made her way further into the house. Moira followed dutifully.

The room Feyre lead Moira to was beautiful and spacious with a view of the city. It had a large bed with gray and ivory bedding and next to it was a large mahogany chest-of-drawers. On the other end of the room was a large unlit fireplace and before it stood a round mahogany table with a set of matching low-back chairs.

Feyre ushered her through the room to an adjacent door that lead into the bathroom. The room was also bigger than necessary with a ceiling-to-floor mirror and a large tub filled with steaming water.

“There are towels here.” Feyre stated, pointing to the chaise in the far corner. “There should be a few changes of clothes in the chest-of-drawers. My handmaidens Nuala and Cerridwen will tend to your dress if you like. I will also make sure they bring food for you when you are ready.”

“Thank you for the food and room, High Lady.” Moira replied while keeping her eyes on the tub. “You do me a great kindness.” Moira couldn’t remember the last time she had a warm bath.

“We will leave Azriel here with you. If you care to tour the city, he will be your guide.” Feyre continued. “We will bring my sisters back here in the morning to begin their lessons with you.”

Moira nodded as she finally peeled her eyes off the steaming water. “Yes, that will do fine”.

Feyre stood there for another moment, she looked as if she wanted to say more but after another silent moment the High Lady turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

The small click of the doorknob signaled to Moira that she was finally alone. She released her shadows then, letting them roam across the rooms to check for any spy holes as she began to undress. She undid the laces on the front of her dress, letting it fall to the floor before lifting her white shift over her head and letting it join the pool of fabric at her feet.

Moira came to stand in front of the giant mirror. She examined her profile; her lithe frame had not begun to change. It’s in that reflective moment that Moira realized how truly alone she was. Her husband was dead. The rest of her family and children half the world away. Tears stung her eyes but she blinks them away as she ran her hand over the flat of her stomach. No, she wouldn’t allow her loneliness to frighten her. Moira’s people would know where she is by now and come for her. The thought of being reunited with her children by the next full moon gave her courage. It gave her hope.

Moira sat at the lip of the tub next to a few glass vials and tested the bubbling water with her hand. It was perfect. She opened one of the vials at her side and found a lavender and vanilla oil, she poured some into the water before corking the vial and slowly stepping into the bath. Moira nearly moaned out loud as she submerged herself to her chin.

She closed her eyes and rested the back of her head on the edge of the tub, letting the soothing smell of the oil calm her mind and the heat of the water relax her muscles. Her hair floated about her shoulders like a dark veil.

She took a deep breath and slipped her head under the water. _You have nothing to fear_. Moira reminds herself of who she is.

Moira kept her eyes closed beneath the water and exhales slightly through her nose, the bubbles made a muffled noise as they travelled to the surface. She combed her fingers through her hair before letting out a scream that no one would hear.

* * *

  **ELAIN**

Elain clutched her beryllus stone to her chest in one hand, her other arm was wrapped around Azriel’s neck. She kept her eyes on Azriel’s stern profile as he flew them down to the townhouse in silence.

Elain and Azriel had a strange kind of understanding. Most days, she found that they didn’t need to say a word to one another to know each other’s moods.

“You find her beautiful.” Elain said. It was a statement, not a question.

Azriel’s eyes shift to her for a moment before he turns away again.

Elain bit her lower lip and looked back, over Azriel’s beating wings to the others trailing behind. It wasn’t the right thing to voice out loud, even if it was the truth.

She looked back to her hand holding the yellow crystal. Its rays glow brightly between her fingers. Elain felt like she is holding the Sun.

“Am I foolish for trusting her?” Elain asks Azriel.

“No”. Azriel answers, his voice like ice yet still gentle. A tone, Elain knows, he uses only with her. “I believe she can be trusted with you and Nesta”.

Elain could sense he wanted to say more but didn’t. She wondered if he was as afraid of Moira as Feyre and Rhysand clearly were. She didn’t press the issue as they arrived at the townhouse.

They are the first to land, followed by Feyre who flew in alone on her own wings. Rhysand arrives carrying Nesta, Elain is slightly surprised her sister flew with him after what happened last time they flew together. Cassian lands last with Lucien, she still struggles with her feelings toward her mate. Elain quickly looked away and makes her way inside to the living room, not bothering to see who would go back to retrieve Amren and Morrigan, who were still at the House of Wind.

Elain sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace, its fire was bright and warm from a fresh log. Nesta came to sit at her side and placed a hand on Elain’s forearm. Nesta held her red stone in her other hand firmly. The light of her beryllus stone wasn’t as bright as Elain’s, but Elain found her sister’s stone beautiful all the same. Elain gave Nesta a small smile before turning to look at the fire again. Nesta sat back in the seat and removed her hand from Elain’s arm after giving it a little squeeze, the simple gesture reassured Elain that somehow everything would be alright.

Elain gripped her stone tighter as the last of Feyre’s inner circle entered the room. She could feel Nesta tense at her side without even looking, Elain didn’t want to be a part of whatever conversation Feyre was about to start.

“I know you think I want to take Moira’s stones away from you” Feyre said softly. “But I assure you I don’t.”

Elain kept her attention on the fire and bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from grinding her teeth in the silent room. She wondered if her sister was reading her mind or if Feyre just knew how predictable she was.

“Good” Nesta said sharply as she sat up straight. “Because you’re not getting them. These stones belong to us now, not Moira.”

Feyre’s eyes were wide with surprise and she opened her mouth to speak but Nesta continued before she could begin. “I want to remind you, Feyre.” Elain turned to look at Nesta then, her sister’s voice had taken on that calm sort of ferocity that would make a lesser man shake in his boots. “You are my younger sister and nothing more. I love you as a sister not a High Lady. I am not nor will I ever be one of your subjects.”

Feyre stood frozen in her spot in that eerie sort of stillness only a Fae could achieve. No one spoke but Elain could feel the animosity of Feyre’s court especially from Rhysand, even if his face only showed bored indifference. Nesta didn’t seem to notice or if she did, she simply didn’t care as she stood and left the room. Elain listened, with her Fae hearing, as her sister made her way through the townhouse and to her bedroom. It was only when Elain heard Nesta lock her door that she let herself breathe again.

“Nesta is right, Feyre.” Elain said to the silent room. All eyes turned back to her. “I believe Moira came to help and she gave us the stones to protect ourselves.”

“We don’t know what the beryllus stones are. I don’t want to fight with you or Nesta at every step. I just want to protect you.” Feyre exclaimed.

The stone in Elain’s fist glowed brighter in that moment, she could feel its power radiate through her skin to the very marrow of her bones. Elain stood as she shook her head solemnly. “No, Feyre. You want to protect your court and your people. I am not a member of your court and the Night Court is not my home.” Elain left without another word and made her way to her room.

Feyre’s inner circle had been nothing but kind and patient with her and Nesta but Elain still didn’t feel at home in the Night Court. She didn’t belong and deep-down Elain resented them. They were the reason she was here, they were the reason she had been turned Fae. It was the Night Court, not Hybern that stole her mortal life.

Whatever camaraderie Ferye shared with these Fae, Elain did not. She could call Azriel her friend but she owed him nothing. The Fae were not her people, the witch and seer clans were not her people.

Somewhere deep in her soul Elain was still human. She still felt human and she would hold on to that tiny bit of hope so long as she could continue to feel that sense of humanity within herself.

She didn’t owe her sister anything most of all. She didn’t owe Feyre her kindness or an explanation. Her feelings were her own. Azriel, she knew, would understand and he wouldn’t betray her confidence, not even to Rhysand and Feyre. Unless they pried her secrets from his mind.

Elain locked her door upon entering her room. The fire was roaring and the room was almost too warm but Elain didn’t mind. She kept her hand on the door handle, standing still and listened with her Fae hearing. Across the hall, she could hear Nesta’s steady breathing as she slept. Beyond she could her Feyre and her inner circle shuffle about downstairs and outside Elain could hear the city of Velaris waking to enjoy another starry night.

Tonight, Elain didn’t care about the beautiful Night Court sky. She looked down at the crystal in her hand and it flashed brightly in her palm, casting dark shadows across the room. _Am I a God now, holding the Sun in my grasp_ , Elain wondered. She made her way to her bed, she didn’t bother to change out of her dress or remove the pins from her hair as she crawled under the sheets and closed her eyes. She held the stone to her chest and focused on her breathing, sending a silent prayer to the Mother for a dreamless sleep.


End file.
